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to EMS m WRITINGS 



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Henry Wyllys Taylor 



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HARTFORD 



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COMPILED AND ARRANGED BY 

ALICE J. MEINS, BROOKLINE, MaSS. 



HARTFORD, CONN. 

press of Ubc Case, XocIjwooC' & 36ratnar^ Compans 

1895 







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Copyright, 1895 
By Alice J. Meins 



TO 

OF 

HENRY WYLLYS TAYLOR 

THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 



CONTENTS 



Genealogy ....... 9 

Biography ...... 15 

Extracts of Letter ikom Rev. J. H. Twichell . 19 

" B. Rowland Allen . 21 

Dr. Willl\m Terry . 23 

Poems ....... 25 

Eglantine — 3 Parts ..... 25 

Legend of Serious Club .... 129 

The Pond ....... 165 

Miscellaneous Poems ..... 183 

Extracts from Mr. Taylor's Letters . . . 290 

Essay on Tennyson . . . 354 

Essay on John Keats ..... 363 

Newspaper Reading ...... 391 

Travels — Mr. Taylor's Letter to his Mother . 405 

La Rochelle . .... 408 

Ravenna ...... 417 

Perugia ..... 428 

Excursion to Monte Cavo ..... 438 

Individual Opinions ..... 449 



(preface 



The manuscripts of Mr. Taylor were not pre- 
pared by him for publication. Undoubtedly he 
would have made changes that it is inexpedient for 
one editing his writings to do. They are accord- 
ingly presented to his friends with little alteration. 

No memorial would be complete without selec- 
tions from his letters. They seem to have been a 
part of himself, of his spiritual communings with 
God and nature ; and those who were often favored 
with his presence, and the elevating influence of 
his manner and conversation, recall sweet and 
precious memories, as they linger over cherished 
reminiscences of his consistent Christian life. 

" Who gives the world a noble thought, 
And writes it out in prose or rhyme, 
May furnish to some lowly soul 
A stepping stone on which to climb. 

Then send your noblest thoughts abroad, 

Nor idly wait some higher call ; 
Give to humanity and God, — 

Your best, nor deem the gift too small." 

Alice J. Meins, 
May II, 1895. 




iiJi4,il!Lsb;ii^3^ 



S^nttlitr 



HENRY WYLLYS TAYLOR came of an 
illustrious and pious ancestry. He could 
trace his descent back to the royal family of 
the Plantagenets. In 1638 some of his ancestors, 
with other Puritans, left their ancestral home in 
England and settled in Hartford. 

Mabel Harlakenden, who belonged to the royal 
family of England, married John Haynes of 
Copford Hall, Essex, England. He became Gov- 
ernor of Connecticut in 1639. Their daughter, 
Ruth Haynes, married Hon. Samuel Wyllys. 
Their daughter, Ruth Wyllys of Hartford, Conn., 
married Rev. Edward Taylor, born in Coventry, 
England ; their descendants have been noted for 
learning, piety, and patriotism. Representatives 
of the family are to be found in nearly every 
State of the Union. 

Rev. Edward Taylor graduated at Harvard Col- 
lege in 1674. He was the first pastor of the 
orthodox church in Westfield, Mass. He died 
when eighty-seven years old, having been an able 
minister of the New Testament sixty years. 
I (9) 



lO GENEALOGY 

Near the pulpit in the church in Westfield is 
a tablet to his memory. His wife was Ruth 
Wyllys, daughter of Hon. Samuel Wyllys, an 
eminent Christian in Congregational Church and 
for thirty years Senator; also member of Con- 
gress of New England Colonies; he died at 
seventy-six years of age in 1709. The office of 
secretary of the Connecticut Colony was ably 
filled by the Wyllys family for a century. The 
Charter Oak was on the Wyllys estate. Ruth 
Wyllys 's grandfather was Col, George Wyllys, 
Governor of Connecticut, who died in 1644. The 
Society of Daughters of the American Revolu- 
tion of Connecticut is called Ruth Wyllys Chap- 
ter. 

The fourteenth child of Rev. Edward Taylor 
was Hon. Eldad Taylor, great-grandfather of the 
late Henry Wyllys Taylor; he was long a dea- 
con of the Congregational Church, and died at 
the age of sixty-nine in Boston, Mass., in 1777, 
while in the arduous performance of his duties 
as a member of the Senate of the Provincial 
Congress of Massachusetts. 

Mr. Taylor's grandfather was Rev. John Tay- 



GENEALOGY ' II 



lor, the fourteenth child of Hon. Eldad Taylor. 
He was born in Westfield, Mass., in 1762, grad- 
uted at Yale College under President Stiles, his 
cousin, in 1784; he was settled pastor of the 
church in Deerfield; owing to ill health he 
removed to Enfield, Conn. ; afterwards, as he 
recovered his health, was settled in Mendon, 
N. Y. He was an amiable man and an excel- 
lent preacher. The last years of his life were emi- 
nently happy ; he wrote about two thousand ser- 
mons ; and preached up to the time of his death ; 
he died when he was seventy-three years old. 
His wife was Elizabeth Terry, daughter of Col. 
Nathaniel Terry, an eminent merchant and pa- 
triot, civil and military, of the Revolutionary 
War, in which he sacrificed a large property. He 
was also an exemplary member of the Congrega- 
tional church. Major-General Alfred H. Terry of 
New Haven, who distinguished himself in the 
late war of the Rebellion, and his gifted sister, 
Rose Terry Cooke, the authoress, belong to this 
family. Elizabeth Terry Taylor's grandmother 
was a daughter of Lemuel Dwight. The Presi- 
dents Dwight were of the same descent. 



12 GENEALOGY 

Judge Jabez Terry Taylor, the late Henry W. 
Taylor's father, was the son of Rev. John Tay- 
lor. Judge Taylor was born in Deerfield, Mass., 
in 1790. He died July 26, 1872, aged eighty-two 
years. He was a member of the Connecticut 
Legislature and Judge of Probate for many years. 
He was loved and honored by the whole com- 
munity. Judge Taylor married Esther Allen, 
daughter of Major Moses Allen of Enfield, Conn., 
who was a descendant of Samuel Allen, who 
came from England in 1632, and located at Cam- 
bridge, Mass. ; afterwards settled in Windsor, 
Conn., in 1635. He was juryman in 1644. His 
descendants have excelled in scientific pursuits. 
His son, John Allen, was killed at Bloody Brook 
by the Indians at the burning of Deerfield, 
in 1675. His son John went to King St., Enfield, 
about 1700. His son Moses was Mr. Taylor's 
great-grandfather. He married Mary Adams, a 
relative of the famous patriots, John and Samuel 
Adams. 

Ethan Allen, Brigadier-General in the Revo- 
lutionary Army, the hero of Crown Point and 
Ticonderoga, whose statue is in Statuary Hall 



GENEALOGY 1 3 

in the Capitol at Washington, was a lineal de- 
scendant of Samuel Allen. Jeremiah Mervin Allen, 
President of Hartford Steam Boiler Insurance 
Company, and a distinguished scientific scholar, B. 
Rowland Allen, banker and broker, who married 
Annie Pierson Dexter, descendant of Rector 
Pierson, first president of Yale College; Charles 
Dexter Allen, author of American Book Plates, 
and Francis N. Allen, all now of Hartford, 
belong to this family. 

Mr. Taylor wrote of his father, "I have never 
known him to vary in the least from the strictest 
standard of Christian integrity. In his private 
life he lived his Christianity seven days in the 
week." Of his mother he writes, " A saintly 
woman. How beautiful she looks to me as I 
trace her lively steps and busy hand watching 
and caring for her children. What a world of 
love we have had poured out upon us!" She 
died in June, 1880. Mr. Taylor was the last survi- 
vor of his father's family of four. His sister, Ame- 
lia Taylor, married Adolphus King, son of Col. 
Jabez King of Enfield. She died leaving a daugh- 
ter, Amelia King, now Mrs. Lorimer of Thomp- 



14 GENEALOGY 

sonville, Conn. Olcott Allen Taylor, born in 1826, 
died in 1850. Gilbert Allen Taylor died in 1886, 
aged sixty-nine years. He married Helen M. 
Page, and left one son, Henry Wyllys Taylor, 
now in Denver, Colorado. 

Hon. Henry Wyllys Taylor, LL.D., Justice of 
the Supreme Court of New York, was Mr. Tay- 
lor's uncle. A memorial tablet of white marble 
has been placed in the Congregational Church, 
where for fifty-two years Judge Taylor was a 
deacon. 



HENRY WYLLYS TAYLOR was born in 
Mendon, N. Y., May 29, 1822. He was the 
son of Judge Jabez Terry Taylor and Esther 
Allen Taylor. From his boyhood he was a 
student, and a great lover of nature. He fitted 
for college and spent several years in teaching. 
He was afterwards for many years connected 
with the Hartford Savings Bank, his uncle, Olcott 
Allen, being treasurer. Owing to ill health he 
traveled abroad extensively, where he gave his 
heart and time once more, he said, 

"To what he loved, there to be taught 
By master minds of modern thought." 

On his return he became interested in the 
Gilbert Elevated Railroad project ; he was an 
active promoter of that system, and was the sec- 
retary and treasurer of the first elevated railroad 
company in New York. He again spent a long 
time in Europe studying. He said he almost 
owed his life to the study of botany. He was a fine 
linguist, fluent in many of the modern languages, 
well read in the classics and sciences ; foreign 

(15) 



l6 BIOGRAPHY 

travel thrilled his soul ; his highly cultivated 
mind could appreciate the beautiful in art and 
nature. Returning to Hartford he was appointed 
secretary of the Connecticut Humane Society, 
and treasurer of the Connecticut Bible Society. 

Mr. Taylor was a man of fine presence, great 
dignity of character, and highly esteemed as a 
Christian gentleman. Few men were more mod- 
est. He loved Hartford, was one of the original 
members of the Hartford City Guard, and be- 
longed to the Veteran Association at the time 
of his death ; also of the Connecticut Historical 
Society, and the Connecticut Society of the Sons 
of the American Revolution, and other organiz- 
ations. 

Mr. Taylor was a thorough student of the 
Bible and spiritual truths ; and kept abreast in 
the religious thought of the times. Always 
abounding in the work of the Lord in his own 
quiet, earnest way, he was prominent in the 
church, serving as member of the choir, historian, 
church clerk, and deacon. He loved the Sabbath- 
school, and was always there as superintendent 
or teacher, sometimes teaching in the Bible class. 



BIOGRAPHY 17 

a German class, or a class in the State prison, 
often calling on the lonely foreigner, conversing 
with them in their own language on heavenly- 
things. His faith fastened on God, a faith that 
enlarged his heart and illumined his soul. He 
was actively and influentially engaged in Home 
and Foreign Missions, and his untiring labors in 
philanthropic work can never be fully appreciated. 
Along the paths of a life of Christian activity he 
scattered seeds, that may yet bring forth abund- 
ant fruit to the glory of God. 

Mr. Taylor died August 20, 1894, at Crescent 
Beach, Conn., where he was spending the summer. 
Little did his friends realize that the day of 
his departure was drawing nigh. Unconsciously 
he entered the valley of the shadow of death. 
We know the language of his abiding faith ; 
" I shall be satisfied when I awake with Thy 
likeness." " When He shall appear we shall be 
like Him; for we shall see Him as He is." 

The funeral was in Thompsonville, Conn., from 
the residence of his niece, Mrs. Lorimer. Rev. 
O. W. Means of the Enfield Congregational 
Church conducted the services. Singing by the 



1 8 BIOGRAPHY 

choir. The bearers were Rodney Dennis, Col. 
Chas. E. Thompson, B. Rowland Allen, Francis 
N. Allen, Horace King, and David Brainard. 
Tenderly the sacred form was borne to the 
family lot in the cemetery near the old church 
at Enfield, where the family so lovely and pleas- 
ant in their lives rest, " till the day break and 
the shadows flee away." 



EXTRACT from letter from Rev. Joseph H. 
TwiCHELL, Pastor of the Asylum Hill Con- 
gregational Church, Hartford. 

From the beginning of my acquaintance with 
Mr. Taylor, I was consciously impressed with a 
certain spiritual refinement and pure-heartedness in 
him, which I came more and more, as the years 
passed, to recognize as rare in its degree and char- 
acteristic of him. While the principal manifestation 
of it was moral and religious, it pervaded his whole 
mind, and was beautifully reflected in his tastes 
and feelings in all directions. In general the thing 
I speak of was revealed in the tone of his thoughts 
and sentiments; in the atmosphere he diffused 
around him. 

I remember his once telling me on his return 
from a vacation, that he had enjoyed the solitude 
and seclusion of the deep forest, because of the 
thousand deHcate, hidden charms of nature he there 
surprised, but chiefly because there, in a manner 
peculiarly tranquilizing and uplifting, he felt the 
nearness of God. 

(19) 



20 EXTRACT OF LETTER 

He said it very simply, as if referring to a 
familiar experience. But I noted it, and recurred 
to it ever after as an index of his inward life. 
Modest, guileless, and sincere, in the company of 
sweet and gracious thoughts ; it is easy to believe 
that they were with him when he woke to greet 
the dawn of the eternal morning. 



EXTRACTS OF LETTER 2 1 



EXTRACTS from a letter by B. Rowland 
Allen of Hartford. 

I first remember Mr. Taylor as my school teacher. 
He taught in what was known as the Bell School- 
house near Thompsonville, Conn. It was called the 
Bell Schoolhouse because it had a cupola and bell 
about twice the size of a locomotive bell. The school- 
house was of the old-fashioned kind, with desks on 
three sides of the room and with benches in front 
for the large scholars. In studying, they faced the 
desks and wall, and turned, by throwing their feet 
over the bench, when called to read or recite. In 
front of these were rows of benches with backs for 
smaller scholars, and still another row for the little 
ones, bringing them near to a red-hot stove, while 
those in the rear of the room were almost freezing 
with the cold. After two years he had a select 
school in Thompsonville. 

My father played the violoncello in church and 
Mr. Taylor the violin : he often came to our house 
evenings to practice. He was always active in 
church and Sabbath-school work, always pure and 



22 EXTRACTS OF LETTER 

upright, a good deacon, a good teacher, a good 
friend, and his example well worth following. 

His tendencies were always of a literary char- 
acter. He was very fond of flowers and botany; he 
delighted in Goethe and Schiller, the art galleries 
of Europe, the ruins of Rome, in Venice, Pisa, Switz- 
erland, Simplon Pass, the Rhone glacier. How 
many times I have been over these subjects with 
him. 

While in Paris he met a friend, a young man 
from Hartford, dying. The proprietor of the hotel 
did not like to have the young man there, but Mr. 
Taylor made it all right with him and smoothed 
matters over, and took care of his friend till he 
died ; he kept his friends informed of his condition, 
had the body embalmed and sent home, and, strange 
to say, in mid ocean, relatives going to Paris to care 
for the sick one met his body on its way to be 
buried, but of course unknown to them. It was a 
very hard experience for Mr. Taylor in his weak 
state of health ; he, however, continued to improve 
and finally came home well, located in New York 
as secretary of the Elevated Railroad Company. 
His record was always good from the first. 



EXTRACTS OF LETTER 23 



EXTRACTS of a letter from Dr. William 
Terry. 

Ansonia, March 26, 1884. 
My dear Friend : 

I am glad to see that an esteemed 
schoolmate is at the head of the Humane Society. 
His name is in print very often in such connections. 
Please express to President Rodney Dennis my re- 
gards, if you think he would remember me. 

I suppose there will be a history of Enfield pub- 
lished some time. I do not know whether there is 
any thing of that kind in course of preparation or 
not. What I wish to say is, whether I live to see 
it or not, I hope it will contain a worthy notice of 
your uncle Roderick. I believe there is no one 
living who can do justice to his mepiory but your- 
self ; I hope therefore you will prepare a good pen 
portrait of him, whatever contingencies may hap- 
pen, that will go into the hands of the historian of 
the town. 



24 EXTRACTS OF LETTER 

Roderick Terry, merchant and banker, married 
a daughter of Rev. John Taylor of Deerfield, Mass. 
He was a man of wealth and great influence. His 
son, John Taylor Terry of Hartford, was a partner 
of Gov. Morgan of New York. 



^^hntm 



AMONG the hills, with quiet skies, 
A loved New England village lies, 
And on its broad and shaded street. 
Where elms stretch out their arms and meet 
And form a canopy of green, 
A line of pleasant homes is seen. 
The gardens rich with fruit and flowers, 
And rampant vines and rustic bowers. 
The spacious barns for hay and grain, 
And screen for kine from cold or rain, 
Declare the thrift, reward of toil, 
To lord and tiller of the soil. 
The church and schoolhouse both impart 
Their lessons to the mind and heart, 
And lifting up from low pursuits. 
Assist to gather nobler fruits. 
Though industry was honored there, 
A noble culture was not rare ; 
A youth that quiet life might spurn, 
3 (2S) 



26 EGLANTINE 

But those remembered, winning ways, 
Invite him kindly to return, 

And spend the remnant of his days. 
On this broad street, the village green, 
There lived a youth of noble mien. 
The love and pride of all the place, 
Because he never would divSgrace 
Himself by any action mean. 
In his clear brow his heart was seen ; 
He loved the sports of active life, 
And, on the green, the youthful strife. 
With line to wander with the brook. 
Or, gun in hand, through every nook 
Of wood or field to find his way. 
Was pleasant sport for holiday. 
But when the powers of life grew strong, 
'Twas pleasant effort to prolong. 
Like wild deer bounding, would not stop 
Till he had gained the mountain top. 
With hurried breath and throbbing heart. 
And rushing blood through every part 
Of his young frame, not yet depraved, 
Not yet by weakening vice enslaved. 
So exercise of human powers. 



EGLANTINE 27 

It may be hard, it may be long, 
But for the loss in Eden's bowers 

Would be to us continual song. 
He had no reverence for pride. 
But loved to aid the weaker side, — 
To feebleness and to a child 
His hand, as mother's hand, was mild. 
His voice was music to the ear, 
Soft tones that sorrow loved to hear. 
These healthful sports and boyish plays 
Were golden in his youthful days, — 
Of free young life he felt the joy, 
And then he loved to be a boy. 
But when the man began to show 

Its workings in his growing soul. 
And new fires then began to glow, 

And he beheld a nobler goal. 
He heard a prompting voice within. 

Resistless pointing out a way 
Where he must strive and hope to win. 

And it was pleasure to obey. 
One day Judge Howland's carriage stood 
Before his door, as though he would 
Assist some friend upon his way ; 



28 EGLANTINE 

And many more were there to say 

"Good-by," or press the hand and bless, 

And strong good will express. 

As Alfred these kind wishes heard, 

He spoke to each a fitting word. 

But one there was, with clear blue eyes 

And thoughtful face, that sought disguise : 

Their hands were joined, their glances met, 

But drooping lids conceal the eye, 
Revealing truth unspoken yet. 

And faintly sound the words "good-by." 
Upon the road, at length, a deep 
Cold sadness seemed around to creep. 
He thought of all now left behind, — 
Of life-long friends and neighbors kind ; 
Of wood and fields, familiar lots, 
And rocks and dells and sunny spots ; 
The stricken home where passed his youth ; 
His father, honored for his truth ; 
And he no more may lay his head 
Where green turf marks his mother's bed. 
" Annie, farewell, I dare not know 
What time shall garner of joy or woe." 
At last he said, " This must not be ; 



EGLANTINE 29 

Over myself I will prevail. 
The past is gone, and let it flee, 

The struggling future let me hail." 
Now, firm resolved, he strove to place 

His thoughts upon his hopeful strife, 
And for a time, by force, efface 

The picture of his free young life. 
'Twas hard, but yet, for many years 

To be by highest wisdom taught. 
With chance to measure with his peers 

In intellect, was pleasant thought. 
At once to work he curbed his will, 
And found it pleasure to fulfill 
A plan with future hope replete ; 
And to his taste the work was sweet. 
Not distant from the shady green, 
Upon a hillside, dimly seen 
Because of tree, and shrub, and vine. 
That tower above, or intertwine, 
Inviting by its simple taste, 
A widow's quiet home is placed. 
Ten years before her husband died 
With little wealth ; she must provide 
For all her wants, and for the child, 



30 EGLANTINE 

The one — of tender years — so mild 
And wise, she seemed an angel sent 
To heal a heart with sorrow rent. 
But she was daughter royal bred ; 

To her, her mother was a queen ; 
Yes, true of both, it might be said, 

Each in the other could be seen. 
The elder people watched her growth. 
And recognized the worth of both. 
The young, her pathway hover round, 
But always spoke with gentle sound. 
The years passed on, some sadly fled, 
For friends they loved so well were dead ; 
Some years were happy, too, for she 
Was wise, and so did always see 
In this our sphere of strange device 
A world where once was paradise. 
At times she taught the village school 
Where children loved her gentle rule ; 
Sometimes at home she loved to teach 
Within the shadow of a beach, 
When one or two were seeking there 
A mother and a teacher's care. 



EGLANTINE 31 

Four years of study having past, 
Unstained and manly to the last, 
He left the classic halls, content 
With honors won and time well spent. 
His father, lonely and depressed. 
Sought other scenes for change and rest, 
And lingered near his student son. 
Whose work he felt had been well done. 
The house and once familiar lands 
Had fallen into other hands. 
So Alfred, since that home no more 
Was his, to visit it forbore. 
And spent his long vacations, guest 
Of friends and relatives far west. 
But now a bound was past, and he. 
With deepest yearnings, longed to see 
Each well-known face, and hear 
Old voices, now by time made dear. 
Once more at home, came greetings kind. 
With words of admiration strong, 
And wonder at the change they find 
In him, the boy away so long ; 
While open house and friendly cheer 



32 EGLANTINE 

Were on the lips of all, and old 
And young express in words sincere, 

Heartfelt good wishes, manifold, 
But one there was he had, as yet, 
Not seen, and hardly dared to let 
His lips pronounce her name — a name 
He spoke not, but which often came — 
And welcome — when his secret soul 
Would to itself, itself unroll. 
Some pleasant words of greeting past. 
Outspoken joy, that now at last. 
The long departed homeward came. 
And was, in truth, the very same. 
Some things were said that had no sound. 

In stronger words than tongue could frame. 
But spoken to the soul profound. 

And quick as furtive glances came, 
Yet in his secret soul he thought, 

" Not now my heart, not now, but wait. 
The work of years must yet be wrought. 

Be still, though thou art desolate." 
And then they sat and talked — the three — 
Of youthful life, and childhood free. 
And what had passed in later years. 



EGLANTINE 

Of good and ill, and hopes and fears, 
And what was ripening in the stream 
Of time, and the common theme 
Of wrong, and slaves, and war, 
And principles we should abhor. 
And stars that beam with healing light 
Uprising in the moral night. 
Too soon the evening passed away : 
The sweetest moments will not stay : 
Of choicest gems there are but few : 
Where dwell the beautiful and true ? 
With promise of to-morrow's walk 

About the hills that now invite 
Them out, then to resume their talk 

In some cool grove, he said good night. 

The moon looked down with kindly smile. 
Inviting him to walk awhile 
Alone. There every shrub and tree 
Seemed moved with life, and will, and glee. 
And had a tale it sought to tell, 
To hold him in a magic spell. 
And all things, in this mystic light, 
Grew large, like giants of the night. 



33 



34 EGLANTINE 

Alone — but he commiined with men 
Who peopled all the streets again, 
And talked, and laughed, and was a boy : 
' Thrice happy years of careless joy. 
The sun shone brightly on the day 

Selected. Softly breathed the air, 
Fit time for fields and wooded way, 

And merry voices, free from care. 
A few friends met, and all agreed 

The truly pleasant path to take 
That, under grateful shade, would lead 

Until they reached the hidden lake. 

A crystal gem in setting green, 
Unchanged as on earth's morning seen. 
Where nature spreads unfettered arms 
With no rude art to mar her charms. 
An outer grove of oaks and pines, 
Within were graceful shrubs and vines, 
And down upon the water's edge 
Creep brake, and rush, and flag, and sedge. 
Soft sounds that from the thicket float 
A merry life within denote. 
The insects glitter in the light. 



EGLANTINE 

Or softly hum, concealed from sight. 
The clouds float on its mirror face 
With softened tints and changing grace. 
Reflected verdure seems more fair 
Than real trees, in sunny air. 
How smooth upon a summer day 
It lies ! Then insects come and play. 
Too near the surface, if they take 
Their course, the bosom of the lake 
Is ruffled by the darting pike, 
Who lies concealed, prepared to strike. 
Then circles widen more and more, 
And chase each other to the shore. 
If rude winds come too near her face, 

A dark frown lowers, and a roar, 
Increasing in its landward race. 

Is uttered on the rock-bound shore. 
But when the wooing zephyrs float, 

Her cheek a softer color takes, 
And on the shore a bubbling note 

Like oft repeated kisses breaks. 
An open space beneath a tree 
There was, down by the tiny sea, 
With charming view and bracing air, 



35 



36 EGLANTINE 

And by the brink they rested there 
On nature's seats of grass and stones, 
More restful far than golden thrones 
When one is weary, but to-day 
They rested only as from play. 
The children — there were two — not long 
Sat still, but, guided by the song, 
Walked noiselessly, and hoped to meet 
The singer with the voice so sweet. 
And as they saw a dragon fly. 
They gaze — half fear, half joy — a cry. 
Surprised by its strange form and flight 
Around the brooks, like flash of light. 
They gathered flowers and garlands green, 
And ran to tell what they had seen. 
The others, in their quiet nook. 

With constantly delighted eyes 
Around the landscape look, 

Made fairer by the softening skies. 
In their exchange of passing thoughts 

About things beautiful and true, 
The topics came to them unsought, 

From that fair world that round them grew. 
The children brought a dragon fly, 



EGLANTINE 

And said, " This thing- will sting the eye, — 

The dreadful thing, and shut the ear, 

I killed it for it came too near." 

" I'm sorry," Alfred said, " you thought 

To kill the great strange fly ; you ought, 

I think, much rather to defend ; 

He cannot hurt you if he would, 

But, more than we think, does us good 

By killing insects that annoy 

Us much, whom we would fain destroy. 

Once more its wondrous form behold. 

Its wings of gauze, all marked with gold." 

The child looked sadly on the form 

Of nature's beauty, crushed and dead. 
Herself most fair, — then, pure and warm, 

A tear ran down, and low she said, 
" I did not know, but thought the fly 

Would do us harm. Poor pretty thing, 
I'm sorry I did make you die, 

Your body tore, and broke your wing." 
But Annie knew the soothing art 
And comforted the dear young heart, 
And soon again their voices ring 
At sight of some new pretty thing. 



37 



38 EGLANTINE 

And then she said, " I sometimes think, 
If we knew more, we should not shrink 
From insects, or from things that creep, 
Or hide in holes, obscure and deep, 
But find in many something good. 
Perhaps a common brotherhood." 
" No brotherhood for me," one said, 
" With such as spin their hated thread, 
Or sing that vilest song, though least. 
Approaching on my blood to feast." 
But why should we condemn a race 
Because we know a few are base ? 
No baser creatures walk the earth. 
Than some who boast of human birth. 
But Alfred said, " We cannot see 
What mighty reasons there may be 
For every little hated life, 
In time's great, all-involving strife, 
Or wavelet bearing joy or pain 
Upon its darkly surging main, 
But everything, however small, 
A fragment of the common all. 
By scales we cannot see, is weighed. 
And for a useful purpose made." 



EGLANTINE 

Yes, every evil that offends, 
Is but a means to higher ends. 
" Is poverty a means of good ? " 
Asked one. " But sure it would 
The saint and sinner both reveal, 
Who love him, or would bite his heel." 
They strolled around their little sea. 

Upon the rocks, and in the grove. 
And where the brook ran off with glee, 

Beneath its tent of vines inwove. 
And so the hours, that holy-day, 
In pleasant words, soon sped away. 

One morning Alfred walked alone 

To think beside his mother's grave. 
And live again the years gone by, 

The slightest memory to save. 
By many stones he paused to read 

The names of those who slumber there, 
And smoothed the turf, and pulled a weed 

For some for whom none seemed to care. 
Sad harvest death had hither brought, 
He gazed around, and so he thought ; 
Why should we feel a sense of dread 



39 



40 EGLANTINE 

In the still place where sleep the dead ? 

The race of Adam, every one, 

Though golden prizes may be won, 

In secret, long for rest. But here. 

Life's troubles all have past, nor fear, 

Nor want, nor loss, nor heart unblest, 

Have power to harm. How sweet their rest ! 

The graves are green, the trees above. 

Kind friends, stand guarding as from love, 

The marble tells the tale, the sun 

Looks loving on each silent one. 

O, blessed rest ! when hearts shall not 

Be grieved for what they are, or what 

They cannot be, and shed hot tears 

For many past and wasted years. 

Both cold and damp may be their bed, 

And hard the pillow for their head ; 

The heavy earth above may seem 

To press, as in some dreadful dream ; 

The sculptured stone with name and date 

Appears to bar the prison gate. 

'Tis well : they hold but little worth, 

Mere dust, returned to mother-earth. 

Our friends could not with us abide, 



EGLANTINE 41 

They laid their tattered robes aside 
And said " g-ood-by," as if at night, 
Withdrawing from our earthly sight. 
The grave is but a portal, cold, 

Through which they pass with new-found wing, 
But once beyond, they will behold 

The golden palace of the King. 
Within this consecrated ground 

We love to guard this cast-off clay. 
And by the venerated mound 

To think that thence they flew away. 
No spirits linger in the grave ; 

Their honored dust to us is dear ; 
We train the willow boughs to wave ; 

They passed away, they are not here. 

'Twas pleasure for the strong young man 

To walk alone out where began 

The wilder scenes in higher hills, 

By paths unknown ; and hear the shrill 

And lonely cry of birds of prey, 

And see the squirrel haste away 

With nimble foot, but with his load 

Upon his yielding, leafy road, 



42 EGLANTINE 

And hear the thousand nameless tones 
Of nature's voices, where low drones 
The insect, and the hemlock, sad, 
Accords with runnels, ever glad. 
With all things that had life, he felt 
A kinship — children all who dwelt 
Together, each received its share 
Of one — the same — great Father's care. 
He loved to think the green leaves spread 
By forests on each stately head, 
Were banners, out in honor flung, 
And summer long adoring swung ; 
That flowers their faces turn above 
To sing their never-ending love ; 
That breathing odors on the air 
Was nature's worship, grateful prayer. 
Those noble princes of the wood. 

Models of beauty and of might. 
Reach upwards where they long have stood 

To bathe their crowns in loving light. 
A gentle breeze but adds more charms ; 
They bow their heads, and wave their arms 
With grace, like courtiers of a king. 
And noiseless as an insect's wing. 



EGLANTINE 43 

But when the winds a warfare wage, 
Their branches quiver in their rage ; 
They plunge head-foremost with a roar, 
Seeming to grasp the one before. 
Like men in pain they writhe and twist ; 
As struggling giants they resist. 
To watch this wild Titanic fight, 
That cost no blood, was great delight. 
Not grander is the deep, stirred sea. 

With maddening roar and changing frowns 
Than thou, when winds contend with thee, 

O ocean of the forest crowns ! 

The pleasant days he came to spend 

At home, too soon had reached their end. 

No time was wasted ; friends, not few. 

Were met, and former friendships grew. 

Sometimes he felt a wish to stay 

And rest, and go no more away. 

But he had formed a plan to see 

The older world — perhaps to be 

A student in some school renowned. 

By which he might on broader ground 

Of truth, more firmly place his feet. 



44 EGLANTINE 

Equipped with sword and shield complete. 

To-morrow, e'er the day shall dawn, 

Perhaps for years he must be gone. 

One heavy task remained, to say 

Good-by to one he loves, but may 

Not speak the word, though well he knew 

That she was his in heaven. Too true, 

Too true, perhaps, for years must pass. 

And he go far away. Alas ! 

The burdened future, who can tell ? 

'Twere better he should leave her free. 

The earnest words that hearts reveal. 

Between the two had not been few. 
Nor was there much he would conceal, 

Yet some things not explained she knew ; 
The eye and voice sometimes betray ; 

And secrets we secure would hold, 
They make as clear as summer day. 

To those we would not have them told. 
" The time is come, and I must go." 
Some words were whispered, soft and low. 
To be for all their years a charm, 
And many stings of life disarm, — 



EGLANTINE 

A music ever in the ear 
Through life, that they beyond may hear. 
Those words of magic none may tell ; 
They ended with a faint " farewell." 

The noble ship, to be his home 
For many days, out where the foam 
Was hissing on the dancing wave, 
A gentle couch, or drifting grave, 
Began to move. " Good-by " was said 
From deck and shore, uncovered head 
And waving hand still spoke, when word, 
Amid the roar, could not be heard. 
Then Alfred stood with eye enchained 
Upon the friends that there remained, 
Who fainter, dimmer, seen no more. 
Were lost upon the smoky shore. 
A few hours, and the island passed. 
And fort, and bay, and lights, at last 
The hardy pilot took his leave. 
The steamer, free, began to cleave 
The deep blue wave, again at home 
Where wild sea birds through deserts roam, 
And turning to one point unseen, 



45 



46 EGLANTINE 

Beyond wild wastes that intervene. 

With ceaseless, tireless, endless strife, 

It struggles like a thing of life. 

The east, now hung with sombre clouds. 

Perhaps a mystery enshrouds, 

A widespread whirlwind may be there. 

And soon the fires of heaven may glare, 

But passed beyond the dismal veil. 

The Old World glories men may hail. 

The evening came, and Alfred sat 

Alone, and watched the fading shore, 
Now hardly seen, so low and flat 

And thought, " perhaps my home no more," 
A few hours past, and all was gone. 

A sense of desolation came 
Across his spirit, now withdrawn 

From men, and life, and hope, and aim, 
Though in a crowd : they home forgot, 
It seemed, he saw them not. 
Upon the sea was shapeless night, 
But summer stars above were bright. 
Those strange old groups he loved to trace. 
Slow moving on with changeless pace. 
And he was home again. 



EGLANTINE 47 

Conversed with those he loved, and then 

Some came much loved, but long at rest, 

Away from earth, among the blest. 

The fiery heart of Scorpio 

Inclining to the realms below 

Was not a pleasant thought, but high 

And lordly in the central sky, 

Well masked, upon the vault of fire. 

Were seen the Cross, the Crown, and Lyre. 

Awhile he sat in silent thought 

Communing with his soul, but when 
The three their charm had wrought, 

He mingled with the world of men, 
Some pleasant days, and words of cheer 
From new-made friends, and sounds of fear 
From timid ones, and rolling seas, 
And white crests scattered in the breeze. 
Discomforts men are loath to tell, 
And some who say they like it well. 
Resolves, if once they reach the shore, 
To trust the ocean waves no more, 
Are features of a life at sea. 
We may predict, but cannot flee. 
Among the friends he chanced to meet, 



48 EGLANTINE 

Was one fair child, who had her seat 
Beside his own. A cherished name 
She had, and with her mother came 
Away from home to spend a year 
Or more abroad, in part for fear 
Of dangers, imminent and grave, 
From " unwise meddling " with the slave, 
A beautiful and gentle child 

Endowed with more than common grace. 
As if an angel were beguiled 

To live with our once nobler race. 
Repeated walks and talks they had 

Upon the deck. He felt the charm 
Of childish beauty, brave and glad. 

Before false pride had done its harm — 
But no one knew what magic came 
To little Annie with her name. 
Mid-ocean, on a pleasant day. 
The ship was speeding on her way, 
As Alfred stood absorbed in thought, 
The little girl, unseen, had sought, 
Behind to climb the rail, to see 
What strange things in the wave might be ; 
A peril for the strongest arm, 



EGLANTINE 

But innocence conceives no harm. 
A sudden lurch the vessel gave, — 
Those little hands, they cannot save, 
But headlong-, with despairing cry. 

Into the cruel deep she fell. 
A splash is all the waves reply. 

Ah ! who her shifting grace shall tell. 
He sprang — he did not stop, to think, — 
And both beneath the waters sink. 
The moment they are lost to sight. 
Time seemed to stop his onward flight. 
The captain heard the scream, and knew 

The plunge, and quick the signal gave 
To stop the ship, and call the crew. 

In hours of danger always brave. 
The stoutest hearts grew pale from fear, 

The mother seemed bereft of mind, 
Without a word, without a tear. 

Or power to move, bewildered, blind. 
The rescuer was quite at home. 
And feared not waters, waves, nor foam. 
He sank not far below, but causfht 
The child, who easily was brought 
Again, up to the loving light. 



49 



50 EGLANTINE 

And if they drift not out of sight, 
He does not fear they will be lost. 
Then on they floated, billow-tossed, 
Now sliding down the glassy wave, 

Down where the ship was lost to sight, 
Then rising from the hungry grave. 

They glided up the other height, 
And dashing through the foaming crest, 

They shut their eyes, and hold their breath, 
A fearful cradle from whose rest 

The waking may be life or death. 
The engines ceased their work. A boat 
Was quickly lowered and in it float, 
Five skillful, trusty, willing men. 
One guides, four ply the oar as when 
Men know a work is to be wrought 
With no delay, with danger fraught, 
Away they pull with measured oar. 
While many hearts God's aid implore. 
Below the wave and on the crest 
They bravely pull, they never rest. 
It was a race for life or death. 
God help the swimmer's panting breath 
Now far away but still in sight 



EGLANTINE 51 

Of anxious watchers on the deck, 
Whence signals guide the boat aright, 

A little arm was round his neck. 
But when the wheels were stopped, the ship 

Rolled heavily from side to side. 
Its high prow in the waters dip 

Deep down, again to higher ride. 
It slowly swings its head around. 

As if to look upon the sea. 
To learn if yet the lost were found, 

And who the periled ones might be. 
The tireless seamen reach the spot 
They sought, with breathless haste, but not 
A bit too soon, and with the saved 
Now both on board, who death had braved. 
Turned backward toward the ship again, 
A hero and true-hearted men. 
In safety by the ship once more, 
Alfred his charge, up, proudly bore. 
Her arms about his neck still fast 
Since there in danger they were cast. 
The mother's eyes to them were bound. 

Her hands were clenched, her face was wild, 
She knew no friend, and heard no sound 

Until again she clasped her child. 



52 EGLANTINE 

Though short that time of maddening fears 

It seemed to her a thousand years. 

From this there grew a friendship strong. 

The mother's gratitude was long 

As life. To her all words were weak. 

The child would cling with changeless love 

To that strong arm that bore above 

The dismal waters, dark and cold, 

Her life, drawn down towards depths untold. 

Some confidential words began 

Of home and friends, and long-laid plans. 

And after years, that they should meet 

Again, in their own homes, where sweet 

Would be the memory of what 

Had passed, they would not lose a jot. 

Once Alfred said he had a friend, 

Another Annie, he was sure 

Some time to come, their love would blend, 

And so through life unchanged endure. 
Prophetic words — but well the veil 

Was hung upon the years not passed, 
That those things better in the trail 

Of time might not their gloom forecast. 
Arrived in port, they say " good-by." 



EGLANTINE 53 

To sunny France the two will go. 
He sought the sadder German sky. 

" Good-by." " We soon shall meet " — below ? 

To see the sights he came not, though 

He had a strong desire to go 

Where men had worked, from stage to stage. 

The problems of the middle age, 

In battles fought for right, in piles 

Of masonry and vaulted aisles. 

In spires, and domes, and tower-capped walls, 

Old homes of Teutons and of Gauls, 

And to their homes who once held sway 

Where muddy Tiber wends its way. 

Or where the Alpine icy head ^j. 

Soars to the realms serene but dead ; 

But he had gone with fixed intent 

Of study, labor diligent. 

And for a purpose, and would let 

No pleasure cause him to forget, 

Or turn him from that plan, long made, 

By which he sought to gather aid 

In the selected field of strife. 

To be his battle-eround in life. 



54 EGLANTINE 

The channel of old Rhine lay in his course, 
And there he yielded to the force 
Of fancy. Sweet it was to ride 
All day upon the deck, and glide 
Along beside the vineyards on the banks 
In well-trained lines, or terraced ranks. 
And watch the castles on the hill. 

Long ruined — clear against the sky, 
Now mouldering to dust, and still. 

That void of life, neglected lie. 
How sad they look ! hark, let them speak, 
And tell some tale remembered long. 
Of manliness, and beauty meek. 

Of pride, rude cruelty, and wrong. 
There is no sound unless the breeze 
Soft whispers in its lazy ease, 
Or winter winds go howling through 
Its ruined walls, as if anew 
To chase some monster's soul away 

Who would return to wash the stain 
Of blood from walls and pavements gray, 

Bright crimson drops, that will remain. 
As story says, still fresh and bright. 

And glow forever in his sight. 



EGLANTINE 55 

The modern cities on the way, 
Alive with commerce, rich, and gay. 
Were hardly seen, for on his mind 
A dimness settled down, and blind 
He seemed to be to what was near, — 
Beyond the ocean it was clear. 
Now on these olden times to brood 
Was suited to his sadder mood. 
Once at the journey's end, he broke 
The spell, allowed no charm nor yoke. 
Not many days then passed before 
He gave his heart and time once more 
To what he loved, there to be taught 
By master minds, of modern thoughts. 
In peace, for peace is in the heart, 

Two guileless spirits, day and day. 
Performed in life their little part. 

In their neat cottage, far away, 
For sweet wild roses, justly famed, 
That Alfred, Eglantine had named. 
The Maker of the world they felt. 
Was good. This earth in which they dwelt. 
Was beautiful, from blade of grass 
Up through the ancient mountain mass, 



56 EGLANTINE 

That rises blue into tlie sky, 
And that His ear was ever nigh, 
That all the dealings of His hand, 
Though little we may understand, 

Though bitter drug and surgeon's knife 
He sends us, all along in life. 
Are but the great Physician's art. 
To cure some malady of heart. 

From childhood Annie loved the flowers. 
When grown mature, still happy hours 
In converse with these friends were spent, 
Sweet, thornless hours of blandishment. 
Once passing through a showy mass 
Of beautiful Parnassus grass, 
She sat down by its verdant bed. 
Admired the sisterhood, and said : 
O lovely flower of summer days. 
With pearly white and green marked rays. 

And worthy of my highest praise. 
Your form and bearing make it clear 

That you are not a native here. 

Was that a dewdrop, or a tear ? 
But will you tell me why you came 



EGLANTINE 57 

To leave Parnassus' heights of fame, 
And seek our land of humbler name ? 

My beauty, did you come alone, 
And all the sisters that had grown 
Up by your side — unkind — disown ? 

Poor stranger ! now you cannot hear 
The Muses singing, once so dear. 
They do not stoop to see your tear ! 

But longing for that ancient place, 
Your eyes are fixed on vacant space. 
Or turned to bright Apollo's face. 

The summer passed, and autumn came, 

With stores of fruit, and tints of flame. 

Admonished by the chilling air. 

Earth's humble children now prepare 

For rest, and winter spreads above 

Their dust, in wise protecting love, 

A princely mantle, glistening white. 

And holy as the morning light. 

How sweet their dreamless rest ! When mild 

The breeze that blows again, this child 

Of Earth will feel its mother's hand, 

And rise to beautify the land. 

How sweet the world in summer's prime ! 

4 



5 EGLANTINE 

But winter is a harvest time 

For thoughtful minds, for then they turn 

Into their inner lives, and learn 

To feed upon the stores of thought 

Now garnered, from all ages brought. 

To Eglantine did Alfred send 

A store of books. Each was a friend 

While long New England winter's reign, 

Held fast the earth with icy chain. 

The leprous blot upon the face 

Of our fair land, changing her grace 

To foul deformity, the scorn 

Of the enlightened world, the thorn 

That festered in the hearts of those 

Who loved their brother man, and rose 

Above the claims of caste, and pride and wealth, 

Extending surely, as by stealth, 

Directed by wise heads, who sought 

To make a wrong not wrong, and thought, 

By spreading it about the land. 

To hide the nation's bloody hand. 

Has caused the marshaling of foes. 

Whose clash shall bring unnumbered woes. 



EGLANTINE 

Deep-thinking men began to fear 

The dreaded time was very near, 

When " coward North " must hide its head, 

Receive the lash, as bondsmen bred. 

Or rouse up from their thoughts of peace, 

To join in fierce and bloody strife, 
Whose dreaded terrors would not cease. 

Till earth should mourn her wasted life ; 
And noble blood enrich the land, 

Till maimed and broken walk the street, 
And children with their mothers stand 

By countless graves, with weary feet. 
How strange that noble men and brave. 
Could risk the choicest gifts God gave 
To earth, since time began ! 
The hope of long down-trodden man. 
To make a tumbling cause more strong. 
Whose spirit is a giant wrong ! 
Perhaps, some king or potentate, 
Some nobleman of high estate, 
For human freedom may not care. 
But burthened sufferers everywhere. 
Observed its rising from afar. 
And longing, watched the western star. 



59 



6o EGLANTINE 

Across the sea the murmurs float 
Of gathering hosts, and bugle note. 

The gentle thought, in this, our age 
Of Christian love, men would not fight. 

That kindness would extinguish rage, 
And all would yield at last to right. 

The student would not waste 
His time in useless things, and chased 
All wandering thoughts away. When those 
Deep grumblings, ever madder, rose, 
He knew their meaning, that dread 
The strife would be, that many lead 
From home with shouts and grand display 
Would rest uncoffined, far away. 
The fiery rain on Sumter fell ; 
The call for men, all doubts dispell ; 
A dreadful gloom hangs o'er the land, 
Some fearing ask, with trembling hand, 
" Will men come forward at the call. 
Or are we slaves and cowards all ? " 
They come — they come from east and west. 
And braver men ne'er drew the sword. 



EGLANTINE ^^ 

But not for glory's crown tliey press 
To join the ranks, but they adored 

Their native land, and strove to save 
That heritage of hard-fought years. 

When men were heroes, poor, but brave. 
Who never counseled with their fears. 

There was distress, discomfiture. 

And doubt, but not despair, for sure 

Is conscious right to win, at last. 

Farewell to peace ! The die is cast. 

" More men," the cry has crossed the sea. 

And Alfred said, " I must not be 

A witness of my country's fall, 
A craven, heedless of her call, 
Yes, I will go — the call obey, 
I follow, God will show the way. 
Our fathers sought to build a state 
Of refuge cities, free and great, 
The longing of all ages past, 
A land of hope, at last — at last. 
If one dark stain had not been there. 
No home on earth were half as fair, 
But if God lends to prayer his ear. 
That hated spot will disappear. 



52 EGLANTINE 

Yes, I will go, though war I hate, 
And have no wish to make me great 
By burning homes, and ruined fields, 

By treading down a fallen foe, 
By epaulette, or name that yields 

Me but a tinsel, empty show. 
I hate the vulgar life of camps, 

And all the vices it begets, 
That poison on the young soul stamps, 

With years of sorrows and regrets, 

dreadful sounds of death and pain. 
Of mangled forms and dying cry ! 

The wounded lying with the slain 

The ghastly face, the aimless eye. 
Yet O ! my country, at thy call, 

1 come, and if God's will, to fall." 

Not many weeks were gone when he 
Had crossed again the stormy sea. 
His father, while he was away. 
Had passed from earth, tipon the day 
The fiery storm on Sumter fell. 
And if he slept in peace, 'twas well. 
Escaping years of groans and sighs. 



EGLANTINE 

And bitter, bloody sacrifice. 

As he was now almost alone, 

He sought the home of youth, well known. 

The two were there to whom he owed 

His life, yet in whose graves abode 

But formless dust. The soul, God's breath, 

Would rise to heaven, when freed by death, 

To Him, a station, on a way 

That turns not back, nor night, nor day. 

Nor cycles measureless, when all 

Is dark. No answer to our call. 

But one there was, a guiding star, 

Undimmed, though he might wander far. 

And tarry long, from year to year, 

But mild as love if he were near. 

Far into night, he reached the place. 

In early morning sleep had fled, 
The hours seemed snail-like in their pace, 

Then he arose and watched the red 
And golden portals of the dawn. 

Through which the sun came in to lift 
The pall from woodland, hill, and lawn. 

And bring to earth her priceless gift. 
The sweet cool air floats gently by 



63 



§4 EGLANTINE 

Under a soft and cloudless sky, 

And floods of mellow light are poured 

Upon the grateful world restored 

To life. The g^reen world thanks for niirht. 

For dewy rest, and inorning light. 

In loving prayer awake the flowers, 

The ox, in stolid joy, devours 

The fresh, dew-dripping herb, and long 

Both wood and field have rung with song. 

And man is grateful for his rest. 

His sleep, and blessings manifest ; 

The golden sun brings pledge of love. 

And hope, and friendly care above. 

And thou, my soul, should gladly sing, 

He thought, and taught by new-born spring. 

Should think the soul would rise from sleep, 

We cannot tell how long, or deep. 

But to a morn more sweet, whose light 

Will be the Son, forever bright. 

That for untiring eyes shall shine. 

For in that realm of life divine. 

No weary hands nor hearts unblest, 

Are longing for the end of day. 
For there can be no need of rest. 

Where there can be no more decay. 



EGLANTINE 

With trembling heart he stood once more 
By Eglantine's inviting door ; 
But greatest joy and fiercest pain 
Were struggling in his tortured brain. 
'Tis pleasure one we love to meet, 
And " home again " is always sweet, 
But he had come to say farewell 
And in his hour of joy to tell 
His firm resolve, his life to yield, 
If need be, on the battlefield. 
How often pleasure mates with pain, 
And gladness flees from grief in vain. 

The greetings past, they sought to know 

About his journey, everywhere 
By land or sea he chanced to go. 

The old and new world they compare, 
And talk of art, of serf and king. 
Of spires and domes that heavenward spring, 
Broad vineyards, castles, and the Rhine, 
Of some well-known and honored shrine, 
And quickly fled the hours away ; 
But there would come another day. 



65 



65 EGLANTINE 

A week passed by, and when men met 
To talk about the war, that yet 
Had just begun, depressed with fear 
Of dreadful loss, and danger near, 
He sought with patriotic fire 
To fill all hearts, and hope inspire 
Against those men, our brothers in 
The years gone by, our near of kin, 
Who now in hate to arms appeal. 
And trifle with the nation's weal. 
There Alfred praised our noble land. 

The brightest spot in all the world. 
And hoped that freemen firm would stand. 

Where stars and stripes should be unfurled. 
Though his was not a boastful tongue. 

Yet, aided by his speaking eye. 
Its accents like a trumpet rung. 

" Come, comrades, who will dare to die ! " 
To many hearts the message went 
Who knew he uttered what he meant. 
And felt 'twere better march to death 
Than draw at home a coward's breath. 
Yes, sweet to die for those we love 
In hope to meet again above. 



EGLANTINE 6/ 

We cannot chain a happy day, 
Cold-hearted time will speed away, — 
Though neither yet had breathed the word, 
Nor either had its music heard, 
Yet, round two hearts a golden chain 
Was drawn, forever to remain. 
In heaven the tiny links are cast, 

Immortal hands to earth convey. 
With mystic lock the ends make fast. 

And take the golden key away. 

As yet he had not told his friend 
His firm resolve, now to defend 
His country ; give his arm and life. 
If need be, in her bloody strife. 
He knew it would deep sorrow cause, 
But there must be no longer pause. 
Ah ! now, above their loving heads, 
A pall, forbidding fortune spreads. 
But Annie listened to each word 
Not as if something strange was heard, 
For, knowing well his fearless heart. 
She felt he would act well his part 
In this sad war, and all would see 



58 EGLANTINE 

Where duty called, there he would be. 
She felt that this, indeed, was right, 
And would not hinder if she might, 
But in her human heart she said, 
" Would that my life might go instead ! " 
A moment — and it seemed a year — 

She could not see, she could not speak, 
Her eyes would shed no soothing tears. 

The rose had faded from her cheek. 
But as this shadow passed away 

There came sweet words of love profound 
Which through this life's remotest day 

Will ever in her soul resound. 
If any spirit chanced to hear 
The words they spoke of love sincere, 
And promises to last as long 
As life, and hope, more strong 
Than life and death, he kindly sped, 
And uttered nought of all they said. 
The deed is done. Two souls confessed 
The bond that heaven before had blest, 
And as they part that joyful night. 
The world had never seemed so bright. 
Nor life so sweet, nor heaven so near. 
All doubt was gone, and passed was fear. 



EGLANTINE 69 

A few short days were left, before 
He mtist depart, and quick they wore 
Away. It was not fame he sought. 
Nor office, but a heart was brought 
For sacrifice without a stain, 
His country's honor to maintain. 
And, as a common soldier, bade 
To follow him all not afraid. 
And many went, now safe and hale, 
Who love to tell this martial tale. 
But some dropped into honored graves. 
And some now sleep beneath the waves. 
To-morrow they must go. How sad 

To say farewell when friends are more 
Than friends, and loving hearts are glad, 

And life ne'er seemed so sweet before. 
Beneath the shady vines, sustained 

By trellis of some rustic grace, 
By Annie's busy fingers trained 

In this sweet home, an honored place. 
Two friends were sitting when the day 
In kingly splendor passed away. 
They did not see the golden door. 
But thought, " perhaps, we meet no more." 



70 EGLANTINE 

The deep emotions of the soul 

May be so strong that, there, the whole 

Resource of language we possess 

Can not in words a type express. 

'Tis better fast within to lock, 

Than speak in words that only mock. 

At length the soldier forced to yield : — • 

" The time has come when we must part, 
My duty calls me to the field. 

My heart would hold me where thou art, 
But duty is the voice of God, 
And I will bow before his rod. 
I hope that we shall meet again. 
We cannot tell how soon, and then. 
That work we have laid out for good 
Of others, that with love we would 
Perform, shall claim our years and all 
Our powers, till Christ our king shall call. 
But thou, my soul's delight, 
I have no word for thee. As light 
As down, they seem to fl.oat away 
Upon the air. What I would say 
Is in my soul, and you must read 
It there. Most sweet it is, indeed, 



EGLANTINE 

To think of our unspoken love 
From childhood until now. The Dove 
Of heaven did plant it here, and he, 
We know, will never set it free. 
While I am gone, you, next to God, 

Will be the star that guides my feet. 
If in disaster falls his rod, 

Or victors' shout my ears shall greet, 
If I return again our plans 
You know, and we will do what man 
May do, but if I am not one. 
When all this mournful work is done, 
To seek my home again, but yield 
My spirit on the troubled field. 
Then all I have is thine, then take 
And use it, Annie, for my sake. 
My spirit will not linger there. 
But, free from climes and heir 
Of Christ the Lord, on wings go 
Up to that home he will bestow 
On those he loves. I cannot tell 
Where ransomed spirits first may dwell. 
Our portion may be here, or far 
Away upon some gleaming star, 



71 



72 EGLANTINE 

But if I may, I'll come to thee. 
My earthly husk you will not see, 
For that was left behind, as mere 
Outgrown and useless earth. And near 
Your side my place will be to aid 
When unseen dangers lurk, persuade 
To what is for your good, and be 
A guarding shield you cannot see. 
When sorrow weighs upon your soul 

I'll look into your weeping eyes. 
Will count the tear-drops as they roll. 

And whisper comfort of the skies. 
If this is but a baseless dream, 

Yet, somewhere in God's boundless space — 
I almost see its cheerful gleam — 

There is for souls a gathering place, 
The pleasure may be ours in store, 

To Christ our dearest friends to bring, 
I'll wait your coming by the shore. 

And guide you upward to the King." 
And then he ceased. A moment passed 
That seemed eternity to last. 
But Annie, crushed with burning grief, 
In secret felt the firm belief 



EGLANTINE 

In no return, and saw her fate, 
In vain, to watch, and wait, and wait. 
Her boundless sorrow made her brave 
A moment, and she said : " To save 
You from the Providence that leads 
I cannot, though my weakness pleads, 
Or that you should refuse to go 
Where duty clearly calls, you know 
I may not ask. But if I could 
Exchange my life for yours, I would : 
'Tis better far to go and die, 
Than stay, to watch with tearful eye. 
To watch, and watch, in sorrow dumb. 
For one we fear will never come." 
The few more words but mock the deep 
Distress of these two friends, for weep 
They cannot, now, but silent stand, 
With eyes that see not, hand in hand. 
A fiercer grief life may impart 

Than in the dewy eye appears. 
More deeply buried in the heart. 

Than spring the fountain of our tears. 
But when again, ah ! who can tell ? 
A kiss, and then a faint farewell. 
5 



n 



74 EGLANTINE 

Then for a time he walked like one 

With reason gone, with wish to shun 

The sight of men, he cared not where. 

The kindly breathing of the air 

Upon his brow brought some relief. 

The stars recalled his old belief 

In God, as one who watched, and would 

Chastise us only for our good, 

And then he dropped upon his knees 

And prayed, and God was in the breeze, 

In twinkling stars, in rock and tree. 

And walking with him seemed to be ; 

Low at His feet he bowed, and poured 

The burden of his soul, adored 

And felt that in that temple rude 

Had come the spirit's plenitude. 

But when he rose, though love was there, 

His fear and dread and doubts were gone, 
And ready now to do and dare 

He left for work before the dawn. 

The mournful days have now begun 

At Eglantine, onward to run 

Their cheerless course, ah ! who can tell 

How lonof ? She does not know — 'tis well. 



EGLANTINE 

A flood of tears at last relieved 

The earthly form, the soul still grieved. 

She sought a comfort from the source 

Whence weary hearts along the course 

Of ages past had drawn their strength 

To suffer, and to rise, at length. 

Into the realms of peace ; but those 

Who know her well, through that repose. 

With gentle words, and busy hand, 

Could buried sorrow understand. 

A stranger, seeing might have thought 

In that clear brow does hope appear. 
There was indeed a hope — it sought 

Fruition in another sphere. 
A few young men, one early dawn. 
Well known to each as boys, were gone 
To join a regiment, that might 
Be moving ere another night, 
They knew not where. They had no fear, 
But life was sweet, and friends were dear. 
They felt their country's right to claim 
Their lives, and to escape in shame, — 
The nation's honor gone — all known 
As cowards, scorned, and meekly prone 



75 



'j^ EGLANTINE 

To masters who our work despise, 

Who our best gift would sacrifice 

But to confirm a chief of crimes, 

The darkest spot in modern times. 

Was worse than death. Their hope was strong 

That heaven would blast the power of wrong. 

They all were brave as men may be, — 

But one had heard beyond the sea. 

Upon an eminence he took 

Of boyhood's home a parting look, 

A world of feeling sought relief, 

He did not scorn to wipe a tear. 
That drop came from no vulgar grief. 

Nor had regret a taint of fear. 

They were assigned to form a part 

Of that great army at the heart 

Of our broad land, at first to .save 

The capital, and then to brave 

The threatening foe, and join, at last. 

In struggles they could not forecast. 

Ambition for a soldier's fame 

Brought him not there. But as he came 

In manly strength, when marched along 



EGLANTINE 

The army, fifty thousand strong, 
With music, spreading far and wide, 
He was not void of martial pride. 
The drill with arms or on the field. 
To him a healthful pleasure yield. 
He felt the force of wit, — could aid 
In youthful sports with zest ; degrade 
Himself he would not, not for jeer, 
Nor gain, nor all united sneer. 
In the rude concourse of the camp 
Was much to pain ; but some the stamp 
Of honor bore upon the brow ; 
And even there they could avow 
True principles, and show a grace 
Refreshing in that desert place. 
Since duty brought him here, he bore 

These ills without complaint, and sought 
Not office, ate the food and wore 

The garb of privates, shunning naught 
That discipline required. A man, 

A soldier, vigilant and brave. 
Who feared not service in the van, — 

Was just to general, or slave. 



77 



78 EGLANTINE 

This army, made of noble blood, 

The pride of homes, rolled like a flood 

Along Potomac's threatened banks, 

Untried (but brave) unequaled ranks. 

And as the months wore on they gained 

In discipline, and wisely trained 

Became an army such as eyes 

Have rarely seen, a sacrifice. 

But not for fame, brave men who fought 

For principle and right, and thought 

Their cause was just, and that defeat 

Would human progress bar, and cheat 

The world of centuries of gain 

Our sires acquired, with toil and pain. 

At length came struggles with the foe. 
And marching up and down, and show 
Of stratagem, and rumbling sound. 
Dread, fiery storms, that strewed the ground 
With victims, bleeding, broken, dead ; 
When dry fields drank oblations red. 
Brave deeds were done ; amid the roar 

Of thundering cannon could be heard 
The victors' shout, or rush before 

Our stronger foe, like frightened bird. 



EGLANTINE yg 

The reaper's harvest was the same ; 

He cared not whence his booty came ; 

The horse and rider are laid low 

With guns, and swords, and wheels. The foe 

And friend no more at war, the coarse 

And brutal torn by one dread force, 

In heaps with youths of noble brow 

And silken locks, together bow. 

Near some with staring, sightless eyes, 

A wounded soldier bleeding lies, 

Uncared, for painful hours, must w^ait, 

Because the number maimed is great. 

With some life slowly ebbs away, 

As runs the crimson, vital stream. 
They think of home, but any ray 

Of hope of life has ceased to gleam. 
'Tw^as here that Alfred's loving heart 
Was wont to go, there to impart 
Some comfort to the stricken men. 
Where there was hope, to aid, but when 
The wound was mortal, raised the head 
And listened to the words he said, 
Perhaps a message to a friend. 
Then near his dulling ear would bend, 



8o 



EGLANTINE 



And whisper words of promised love, 
In the great heart that rules above. 

One day, among the wounded brought 
Into the hospital, he sought 
To aid, was one who wore the dress 
Of those who caused the war. Not less 
He tried his periled life to save. 
Although he seemed a soldier brave, 
His manly features clearly show 

The signs of gentleness and truth, 
And Alfred thought, if not my foe, 

I would have loved this rebel youth. 
As kindred souls draw each to each. 
And mingle hearts in honest speech. 
So these two men a common ground. 
Beyond the present struggle, found. 
Exchanged — the rebel marched away ; 
Both hoped to meet another day. 
Rebuked for this " unwise " display 
Of friendship for a man in gray. 
By one who wore a sword, could prate. 
With nothing else to make him great. 
Our soldier made him no reply, 



EGLANTINE 

Though pity sorrowed in his eye. 

Ah ! poor and little shoulder-straps. 

An officer by chance, perhaps. 

The man to whom you rudely spoke, 

There towers above you like an oak, 

In nobleness, and all that can 

Exalt and glorify a man. 

In all the ages time shall fly, 

You never will advance so high, 

But that he can look down, and find 

You slowly moving far behind. 

Now, after combats fierce and long, 
With both assailants skilled and strong:, 
And victory for both in turn. 
When no one could the end discern, 
At once the battlefield is changed. 
For on free soil marauders ranged. 
The greatest captain of the foe, 

And, of their host, its flower, admired, 
One day went plundering, to and fro. 

And gathering spoil so much desired. 
The Union army heard the cry 
For help, they march ; they almost fly. 



82 EGLANTINE 

And tramping steeds, and rumbling car, 
And measured tread, are heard afar. 
Through Maryland was marching then 
A hundred thousand Union men. 
The two great hosts are coming near, — 
Above the hills they soon will peer, — 
On Gettysburg's surrounding heights, 
In order, each again unites 
His scattered corps, in battle line, 
That ruling range and strength combine. 
Two hundred thousand men, all skilled 
In war, and brave, with ardor thrilled, 
With all the modern aids in war. 
Await the coming morn to pour 
Swift death on each opposing head, 
And change green earth to gory red. 

July began with fighting days, 
Decisive in that dreadful strife. 

When soldiers earned their country's praise 
And thousands mourned for wasted life. 

The first — men fought along the line, 

Perhaps, more clearly to divine 

The plans and courage of the foe. 



EGLANTINE 3^ 

Than for their final overthrow. 

But they were brave on that first day, 

And many fought their lives away : 

When night, at last, to truce constrained, 

The rebels had some vantage gained. 

But on the second — Lee had placed 
His army on the hills — a curve 

Five miles in length, whose front embraced. 
In part, his foe, now firm of nerve. 

Upon the Cemetery Hill, — 

A wedge-shaped, rough, and rocky heio-ht 

That by great industry and skill 

Was wisely strengthened in the night. 
The Union forces were prepared 
For any change the rebels dared 
To make. Two mighty hosts, all brave. 
And ably led, who will behave 
Like heroes in the hour of need. 
With Southern Lee, and Northern Meade, 
A mile-wide valley lies between 
With planted fields and meadows green. 
Some battles fierce were fought that day. 
No words can that sharp fight portray 
For Little Round Top Hill, or storm 



84 EGLANTINE 

Along the lines where men perform 

Most valiant deeds, with fearless foes. 

A dreadful day, for at its close, 

Down through that valley, fresh with spring, 

And life, and hope, had passed the king 

Of terrors, and there lay quite dead. 

Or broken, on the ground, now red 

With flowing blood, still warm, a host 

Of forty thousand men, whose boast 

Would be, that each was right. 

Yes, brothers, struggling in a fight. 

Cruel as death, while only friends 

They should have been. So man contends — 

Would bravely fight — and nobly die — 

He thought for truth — but for a lie. 

Upon the second day Alfred 

Was made a prisoner, and led 

Into the rebel camp. A ball 

Had pierced him, but he did not fall. 

And thought the wound was slight. A few 

Hours later came a change, he knew. 

For he had often watched by those 

Who died of wounds, he soon would close 



EGLANTINE 85 

His eyes to earth, — he thought to rest 
In endless peace — forever blest. 
How quickly sped his burning thought 

Across his life's completed web. 
A child, a youth, a student, brought 

Now down to its enfeebled ebb. 
But when he thought of Eglantine, 

A dimness gathered in his eye, 
" May God stretch out His arm divine 

And keep thee now that I shall die." 
Then slowly passed away the night, 
And cheerless came the morning light. 
A dreary night, of dreams and pain, 
Of waiting for release in vain. 
Removed from guard, as one who bore 
The signs of death — they could no more, 
Because the number there was great 
Of those who needed care. His fate 
No more was in the hand of man. 
And life was but a wasting span. 
By morning light a rebel paSvSed 
And knew his face, though overcast 
By coming death. Down by his side 
He kneeled, and, gently speaking, tried 
To make him understand who spoke. 



g5 EGLANTINE 

And then the mournful silence broke 
With these sad words, " O noble friend, 
I grieve to see thee near thy end ; 
I fondly hoped, when war was past, 
To weave a friendship that would last 
All time. Now, friend in my distress, 

You die alone, killed by my friends. 
O dreadful war, and pitiless. 

Whose cost all measurement transcends ! 
How can I aid you now at last ? 
All but my honor I will cast 
Before thy feet. Once more awake ! 
Have you no last request to make ? " 
A bugle note was blown, he knew 
The signal, and must go. "Adieu, 
My friend. A fierce attack is planned 
The enemy cannot withstand. 
And desperate it soon will be, 
On it shall turn the victory. 
If I survive, we meet to-night, 
But if I fall, in world more bright." 
He laid that hand, still warm but weak, 

Down by his side, and went away, 
Our soldier, though he could not speak, 

Had heard, as motionless he lay. 



EGLANTINE 

The forenoon of July the third 
Had passed, no crash of war was heard, 
But there was busy work in each 
Great camp : with Lee, a plan to reach 
By one all-centering storm, the height 
Where sat his foe ; with Meade, by might 
And skill, to ward off the attack, 
And hurl the brave assailants back. 
A silence that had made the soul 
Grow sick, because that soon would roll 
A storm, than cyclone rage more wild, 
Till noon the watching hills beguiled. 
Ah ! brave men doomed to die to-day, 

Awake from love's long cherished dreams. 
Your greeting will be far away, 

You float upon diverging streams. 
A hundred iron throats at last 
Pour forth a stream of fire, and cast 
Hugh missiles, howling o'er the vale. 
Where tortured spirits seem to wail. 
Some plunge into the earth or dash 
Against the rocks with fearful crash. 
And scatter fragments wide around 
Upon that desecrated ground. 



87 



5 EGLANTINE 

And some will reach the spot where men 

In ranks stand firm, and then, 

The once fair form is marred and torn. 

And dashed aside as if in scorn, 

And horse, and arms, and men are strewed 

Upon the ground, with blood imbrued. 

The sad earth trembles at the roar 

And mourning clouds the doom deplore. 

At once the Union ranks return 

An equal storm of iron hail. 
Each would the other's prowess spurn. 

And neither host from fear will quail. 
O Gettysburg ! where fought the strong. 
How fierce that strife when, two hours long, 
Two hundred cannons poured their fire 
Across thy vales, with ruin dire ! 
Whose thunder with amazement fills 
The dwellers of the trembling hills. 

Then like a dreaded lava stream 

The lines of infantry appear, 
Their bright arms in the sunshine gleam, 

They march like men who do not fear. 
Extending miles across the plains 

With right, and left, and a reserve, 



EGLANTINE 89 

They feel they came not forth in vain 

And will their country's praise deserve. 
Well trained is every marching man, 
And gallant Pickett leads the van. 
Then on they march with measured tread, 
Unflinching nerve, and banners spread, 
With dauntless hearts and iron will, 
Up toward the cemetery hill. 
Upon that most important height, 
By breastworks half concealed from sight 
The Unionists admire the dash. 
But silent wait the coming clash. 
They feel that on this fated day 
Sweet hope will bloom, or fade away. 
They have no fear, they came to fight 
For crushed, threatened human right, 
And if they fail, at last, believe 
Oppressed humanity will grieve. 
With silence that suppresses breath 
They balance in the scale of death. 

Down from the Union guns there came 
A storm of fire, and shot, and shell, 

A fearful shock, a deadly aim. 

But on they came, — they bore it well. 



QO EGLANTINE 

When near enough to see the eye 

The Union soldiers take their place, 
And twenty thousand minies fly 

Forth buzzing on their fatal race. 
Though thousands fall, and one line seems 
To melt away, undaunted streams 
Of fearless men replace the dead, 
And onward march with measured tread. 
Up, up the hill they onward pass 
By very force of moving mass ; 

Some scale the heights — a banner raise — 
As victors shout, and claim the day. 

Exposed, then burst a fearful blaze 
Upon their flank, they drop away. 
The veterans charge ; the work is done ; 
The country saved ; the battle won ! 

While living men were there in strife 
And wasting streams of crimson life, 
The dying soldier on the ground 
Revived awhile, could hear the sound. 
And hoped to live to know the end ; 

Some last words on a letter wrote ; 
And thought, perhaps, some human friend. 

Would send it to his home remote. 



EGLANTINE gi 

But death was near. Stretched on the ground 
With bed of grass, no warlike sound 
Can reach him now, but in his thought 
There came a crowd of friends, who brought 
The flowers he loved, to deck his bed, 
And downy pillow for his head, 
Sweet voices fell upon his ears. 
The much-loved tones of early years, 
But one there was who joined the past 
And present, on whose face he cast 
His dying gaze. When she was gone, 
There came a ray of that bright dawn. 
Where blooms an everlasting spring. 
Where sin has ceased, and Christ is King. 
He caught a glimpse of what no tongue 

Can tell, he reached the highest goal 
Of life ; God's temple open flung. 

Eternal glories filled his soul ! 

Among the last to leave the field 
Was that kind enemy, who kneeled 
Beside the prisoner, and laid 
His hand upon his brow, and bade 
Him speak ; but it was cold, and death 



g2 EGLANTINE 

Had chilled liis pulse, and stopped his breath. 

The letter and a picture still 

In his dead hand, he took. " I will," 

He said, " thy message send." He wound 

Him in a soldier's cloak, and found 

A grave and laid him there, at rest, 

An unmarked grave — forever blest. 

The friend he left at Eglantine 
Had studied every camp and line 
Of march, and trembled when she knew 
A battle raged, and faintly drew 
Her breath till letters came to tell 
The news of his escape, alive and well. 
But those were painful days. The pride 
Of many thousand homes had died, 
And many were in peril, who 
The mothers, wives, and lovers knew 
Might perish any hour. Not those 
Alone are brave who life expose 
Upon the field, but brave as men 
Are women left at home, and when 
The dear ones die, they suffer too, 
A longer death, but yet as true. 



EGLANTINE 

From time to time had letters come 

Indited in a soldier's tent ; 
A few, no doubt, were lost. And some 

To him with holy words were sent. 
The last he wrote in June, in haste, 
While marching- north, with pencil traced, 
But soon the stirring tale was told 
Of Gettysburg, and young and old 
Were glad and proud of that great day. 
They smile and shout, as well they may, 
For equal, on their chosen field. 
Our strongest foe was forced to yield. 
The consequences may be great. 
Perhaps here hung the nation's fate. 
Though multitudes to hope incline, 
There came no word for Eglantine. 
Her friend she knew was in the fight 
And bravely fought. The second night 
His comrades saw him not. " Not dead. 
But prisoner, no doubt," they said. 
Then she must live in sad suspense 
And try to trust in Providence. 
Long weeks and lagging months passed by. 
And some achieved a deathless fame. 



93 



Q4 EGLANTINE 

The world heard not her smothered cry, 

For from the dead no message came. 
O hope ! dear gift by pity lent 
To hearts with speechless sorrow rent ! 
A veil to hide, awhile, the deep 
Abyss of our distress, and keep 
Us still in life, until the power to feel, 
By over strain — it may not heal — 
Is withered — as by autumn frost 
Untimely flowers — and dead and lost. 
Kind friends would gladly comfort give. 
But to this spirit sensitive 
The words they spoke gave no relief ; 
The quenchless fountains of her grief 
They could not reach. Not she alone 
Had lost ; but one continual moan 
From morn to morn, without one ray 
Of hope — that cannot -pass away. 
From many thousand homes will rise, 
As burning incense to the skies, 
Because their loved ones, in the prime 

Of youth and manly beauty rare, 
Were rudely snatched away, and time 
Cannot the priceless loss repair. 



EGLANTINE 95 

But natures formed with keenest sense 

For beauty feel more strong offense 

At ugliness, and so the heart 

With finest cords will feel the smart, 

When torn, and suffer fiercest pain, 

Though common souls might not complain. 

How very faint it now might be, 
There was a hope of life, that he, 
Delivered from his prison cell, 
Would come again, alive and well. 
Therefore, for those she daily met 
There was a cheerful air, a debt 
Now due, she thought, to living friends, 
And love with duty daily blends 
In works to aid the worthy poor. 

With bearing dignified and kind ; 
And any stricken one was sure 

In her a sympathizing friend to find. 

October came with milder rays. 

With fruits, and grain, and shorter days. 

In every grove some princely tree, 

As for a parting jubilee, 

Had donned his gold and crimson vest ; 



g6 EGLANTINE 

A rival of the glowing west. 
Much Annie loved the gorgeous sight, 
The countless tints, the mellow light. 
On hill and dale around the cot 
Where God had cast her quiet lot. 
A noble maple, hale and sound, 
Stood by the door, in glory crowned. 
Once, resting on a garden seat 

A leaf of matchless beauty came 
Alone, and fell beside her feet. 

And glowed in tints of gold and flame. 
She took the faultless thing, and said, 
" Come gentle messenger and tell 

Me, were you hither kindly sped 
With message from some prison cell ? 
Whose pencil dipped in heavenly hues 
Did touch thy face that speaks ? and whose 
Soft fingers brought thee from thy seat 
And sisterhood down to my feet ? 
What message dost thou bring ? alas ! 
I can not hear thy words, they pass 
Beyond luy earthly sense, I know 
That nature sometimes speaks in low 
And soundless voice. And this frail leaf. 



EGLANTINE 

By fleeting life, and glory brief, 
Can talk, though voice is gone and breath : 
Of passing, changing, fading, death." 
Though fancy moved the words she said 
Her soul responded, — " He is dead." 

It was a common thing to meet 

A man on crutches on the street, 

Whose honors, and whose wounds were pay 

For faithful march and bloody day ; 

And some mean souls, who dared not go 

Had now no favors to bestow ; 

But not a few were happy made 

By gentle voice and proffered aid. 

Then slowly passed the year away 

In battles lost and battles won. 
There was no gleam of coming day 

When this sad work would all be done. 
The contest was with heroes now, 

And liberty must win the day ; 
The foe, though brave, must break or bow, 

Come what will come, end when it may. 
It was the grasp when both defy, 

When one will win and one must die. 



97 



q8 eglantine 

The nation walked in blood and tears 

Four long to be remembered years, 

And then the Great Rebellion fell, 

A monstrous cheat ! They struggled well. 

But for a cause the world will hate, 

And say it well deserved its fate. 

The shout of victory was heard 

Throughout the land, and peace, sweet word, 

Now long unused, but ever dear. 

Fell on the country's grateful ear. 

Then came the warriors back again, 
Who yet survived, heroic men, 
With banners that they bore away. 
And honored every fighting day. 
Triumphantly received at last, 
With shouts, and guns, and trumpet blast. 
They all have come and passed along. 
The sick, the maimed, the well and strong, 
But untold thousands came not then, — 

In far-off graves their rest will be, 
In battle-field or prison pen, 

Or ooze in bottom of the sea. 
The fate of some no one can tell. 



EGLANTINE 



99 



Where now they lie, or where they fell. 
No more shall gladden longing eyes, 
Till they who sleep in graves shall rise. 

What Annie feared she knew was true ; 
And to her friend she bade adieu 
Till death. That thought with crushing weight 
Revealed her future desolate. 
Not able longer to control 
The fiery tumult of her soul. 
She said : " Alas ! my friend, the best 
Of men, of every grace possessed. 
And heart that glowed with love to man, 
And hope all centered in a plan 
For human weal, through worshiped name 
Of Christ, who did not war for fame, 
Condemned to perish like a slave 
Of sense, or coward, though as brave. 
And hale, and tireless as the best, 
Cast off unknown, as if in jest. 
No friend was there, nor help to save, 
Nor parting words, perhaps no grave. 
O God ! why dost Thou bruise me so ! 
Have I not served Thee, loved to trust, 



lOO EGLANTINE 

And praise, and do Thy will ? And lo, 

Thy foot hath ground me into dust ! 
My heart is weary. Maker, who 
Dost rule the world, Oh, take me too ! 
Then bowing down with stifled cries 
The scalding fountain of her eyes 
Burst forth, and there her boundless grief 
In these kind tears found some relief. 
In fancy Alfred came, and stood, 
And looked, as he had said he would. 
At length her murmurs came to mind, 
Her outburst, calling God unkind. 
Then she upon her knees confessed 
And strove to curb her soul's unrest. 
With head bowed down, and covered face, 

Communed with God and with her soul, 
And rose not from that humble place, 

Till reason had resumed control. 
" O Son of God," she said, " I come 
And at Thy feet will take the crumb 
That falls to me. Forgive my word. 
Great was my sorrow when I erred. 
I know Thou dost chastise for good, 

Our wayward spirits to control. 



EGLANTINE loi 

And heal, as kind physician would, 

Some hidden malady of soul. 
But I am human yet, and weak, 

I did not think my secret heart 
Had in it depths that could so speak. 

Ah, do not from my soul depart ! 
Henceforward I will not complain 
About my lot, but will remain 
In peace, whatever may befall 
Me here, and wait Thy call." 

Like all devout in spirit, when 

Pressed down with trouble, it was then 

That -God seemed present everywhere ; 

Benevolence was in the care 

Of nature. All its forms declare 

His matchless skill, and power, and wear 

The garb of beauty. She could hear 

Him speaking by the spirit's ear. 

The mother and the daughter well 

Could understand each other now. 
Their lives, at last, were parallel, 

And to one sorrow both must bow, — 
A noble parent, noble child, 



102 EGLANTINE 

One hope, one destiny. Exiled 
From home, indeed, but sure at last 
Of home and friends, when life is past. 
They only know each other well 
Who have the same sad tale to tell. 
Then came these words, forgotten long, 
Perhaps, some half-remembered song : 
Not long, O sad one, must you wait. 
The speed of time is very great ; 
Seek yet some woe to mitigate. 
You think " of kindred few remain. 
And human glories all are vain," 
But you might ease some heart in pain. 
" Few loved ones now are left behind." 
Oh, yes, the lame, the halt, and blind 
Are waiting some wise guide to find. 
You say " the world is full of guile," 
And " would go home," but wait awhile. 
You may some sad heart help to smile. 
In the great sea of human life, 
In minds untaught, with God at strife, 
When thoughtlessness and vice are rife, 
Are many gems of stainless ray. 
That washed and polished, might display 
More quenchless beams than king of day. 



EGLANTINE 

Then seek not rest, it is not night, 
But gather, gather, wash them white. 
And cause in heaven a new delight. 

The friendly foeman who received 

The letter from the dead, believed, 

When war should cease, he might the tale 

Relate to those who now bewail 

Their loss, and bear the message he 

Had finished, as his soul, set free 

From prison house of human clay. 

Had plumed its wings and sped away. 

Among the few choice things that war 

Allowed, this shared a place. And for 

A way to send it home he sought. 

But none was found ; meanwhile was fought 

A battle, and he might have died 

But that a ball was turned aside. 

The wound was deep, but life remained ; 
The message had been torn and stained. 
While in the hospital he sent. 
With other things, this packet torn 
Down to his southern home. It went 
Astray, until, all worn, one night. 



103 



I04 EGLANTINE 

Like drifting wood before the blast, 
It reached him when the war was past. 
But Edgar — childhood's common name - 
Had told the story, and the name, 
Described his manly form and face, 
And spirit's cheerful, winning grace. 
But from what State he came he knew 
Not, the lost package was the clew ; 
When he received it the address 
Was torn, that bullet pitiless 
With blood had blotted out the name 
And place. A note in writing fine. 
Had seemed to come from Eglantine. 
His was addressed, as near friends do. 
To " Annie." All gave not the clew. 
The picture of a thoughtful face, 
The cruel blood did not deface. 
The sister thoughtful with the name. 

At length burst forth, " 'Tis surely he. 
Yes, Alfred, yes the very same. 

Who saved me sinking in the sea. 
He spoke of ' Annie,' some near friend. 
To whom this letter he would send." 
Again did Edgar tell them how 



EGLANTINE 

He looked and spoke, his form, his brow. 
The mother said, " As good as brave. 
He risked his life your own to save." 
No pains were spared some trace to gain 
Of the lost friend, but all in vain. 

The first midsummer from that time 
They sought the cooler northern clime, 
Began to ask for Eglantine each place 
They traveled through, but yet no trace 
Was found. One day upon a street 
With arching elms, they chanced to meet 
A lady who, the daughter thought. 
Was like the picture that she brought 
And treasured all their journey round ; 
True guide, for now the sought was found. 
In most respectful words they sought 

An interview, and with unfeigned 
Emotions, told the tale, and brought 

The long-lost packet, torn and stained. 
He never told her of that brave 
Adventure in the sea to save 
The drowning child. She had not known 
How good he was, and with a moan 

7 



105 



I06 EGLANTINE 

Betrayed the effort to control 
The crushing burthen of her soul. 
The strangers for a time withdrew. 
In hours of great distress they knew 
The stricken spirit, helpless grown, 
Would shed its bitter tears alone. 
The torn and bloody gift she gazed 

Upon, with staring, tearless eyes ; 
The bloody spots like balefires blazed 

And shone on Alfred as he dies. 
Her trembling hands the sheet unfold ; 
She reads the hopeful words that told 
The story of two anxious weeks. 
Then passed some days of which he speaks 
Not. At the end with pencil traced, 
In broken lines, in part defaced, 
As consciousness was lost or gained. 
He tried to write of love unfeigned, 
And hinted of some glimpses bright, 

He was permitted then to see. 
Of what he had no power to write. 

Or words to tell, what they might be. 
The last words it was hard to tell. 
They seemed to be, she thought, " Farewell. 



EGLANTINE -^^q^j 

The painful mystery was now 

Revealed. One course remained : to bow 

Submission, while we here sojourn, 

And wait in hope some time to learn. 

What He who chasteneth the son 

He loves, has yet in store. But none 

The less does nature's burning stream 

Of pearly drops a solace seem 

To give, whom trodden into dust, 

Though we may feel that God is just, 

No bitterness of heart was there. 

But hours of thought, and tears, and prayer, 

And resolutions for the years 

To come. No dread, no hate, no fears, 

" The road by which this letter came 

Was long," she thought, " it wandered years. 
Was torn, and almost lost its name, 

And now in sorry plight appears. 
He passed away two years ago, 

Years made of sad and hopeless hours. 
How far away his flight, I know 

Not, but he fled with new-born powers. 
O Alfred ! are you near me now 

As once you promised if you might ? 



I08 EGLANTINE 

And do you hear my sacred vow 

That to you dead, again I plight ? 
I sometime fancy that you stand, 

With pity glowing, by my side, 
And feel the guidance of your hand 

As when in life, but glorified. 
Ah, no ; that surely cannot be, 

'Tis but a fiction of the brain, 
My feeble vision cannot see 

The secrets of that upper reign ; 
But where is now your home, my friend ? 

Still here upon this earth ? or far 
Away ? or do you upward tend 

On tireless wings from star to star ? 
And will you ever haste from me, 

Through all the cycles that shall roll, 
And onward, onward from me flee. 

To reach the Highest as your goal ? 
I shall not tarry long — return 

And wait, until He set me free ; 
My life will be a short sojourn, 

A point in endless jubilee." 

The strangers often come. There grew 
A friendship, part from what each knew, 



EGLANTINE 109 

And more, for qualities of heart, 
For goodness never spoiled by art. 
They walked or rode about the hills 
And vales and groves, with tinkling rills ; 
When all the daily tasks were done, 
They watched the royal setting sun. 
As evening hung its veil around 
The hills beneath the trees ; they found 
A pleasure in exchange of thought, 
Recalled the lessons life had taught, 
The war that had just reached its end, 
So strange, so sad, to foe and friend ; 
Of fickle fortune, that displays 
A laurel crown for youth, but lays. 
Broad spread, a rustling heritage 
Of withered leaves, for helpless age. 
Some there in silence doubting stand 

Because they cannot lift the veil. 
Yet Annie saw a lifting hand, 

A palm through which had pierced a nail. 
Dear friends, she said, I do not grope 
My way in darkness, but in hope, 
Walk onward in the firm belief 
That God rules all, from fading leaf 



tlO EGLANTINE 

To sovereign man. He seeks our weal, 
And our afflictions are to heal 
Some soul diseased. So now I wait 
In peace, though life seem desolate, 
There is no chance. One purpose runs 
In grains of sand or blazing suns. 

Cool autumn days and milder lights 

The strangers home again invite ; 

But Annie stayed at Eglantine, 

For her a much-loved holy shrine 

To be the pupil of the one 

Whose name she bore. There had begun 

A friendship, lasting, not misplaced, 

From common qualities and taste, 

And story of a common friend 

In whom their love and friendship blend. 

Then Annie of the South, to save 

Confusion there, was known as May ; 

Familiar name her father gave, 

Unused since he had passed away. 
One evening in a quiet place, 
May gazed on Annie's thoughtful face. 
And said : " 'Tis strange that he 
Who plunged into the dreadful sea, 



EGLANTINE m 

To hold me up, so soon should die." 

Then something glistened in her eye, 

" That was a fearful time for you," 

Said Annie, who the dear child drew 

More near her heart. " Oh, yes, how cold 

The water was, that could not bear 

Me up, when swiftly in the sea 

I sank far down, it seemed to me. 

A dreadful sound was in may ears. 

And minutes then were long as years. 

I thought I should then surely drown, 

And sink forever down and down ; 

Then something caught me, weak with fright, 

And drew me upward to the light. 

And gently spoke. The voice I knew 

Though waters roared, and wild winds blew. 

And thus we seemed to float away 

Half lost in breakers and in spray. 

Upon the great waves foaming crest. 

Or sliding down. There was no rest. 

He told me God could give us aid 

Though all alone upon the sea. 
I heard his low voice when he prayed 

For strength for him and help for me. 



112 EGLANTINE 

Since, often in my dreams I sink 
Beneath the wave, and think 
He comes to lift me out. You will 
Not wonder that I love him still ! " 
Then there was silence for awhile, 
And mingled tears. Devoid of guile. 
Out from her childless head, had May 
Her story told. Far deeper lay 
A burden on the soul mature. 
She cannot loose, but must endure ; 
But May with spirit, pure and bright, 
Became her every day delight. 
A few more children, living near 
Came daily in — they all were dear. 
She used the latest skill to train 
The mind, but better loved to gain 
An entrance to the heart, unfold 
Its noblest powers, and wisely mould 
Them into what is good and true : 
And happily their moments flew. 

The story now had all been told. 

The loving friend, the soldier brave, 
With talents rare and manifold 

Was resting in a far-off grave ; 



EGLANTINE nj 

And Annie felt her doom for aye 

Was fixed upon that fatal day. 

" What shall I do these coming years — 

It may be long — in which appears 

For me no goal ? " She pondered well 

In humble mood, did not rebel, 

Was not with God in strife, 

But felt the emptiness of life. 

The word divine was now more dear 

To her, its dark things seemed to clear 

Away, it was a boundless, priceless store 

Of truth, increasing evermore. 

And when her heart went up in prayer 

She felt that God himself was there, 

A being holy, just, and true, 

But yet the God of love. The blue. 

Clear sky of heaven was his, and so 

Were birds, and flowers, and brooks that flow 

Along the vales, their life renew, 

And every child of beauty woo. 

Then came a gladsome, hopeful peace, 

That from eternal fountains rose ; 
The earth cannot its flow decrease, 

Nor break its deep and sure repose. 



114 EGLANTINE 

From him now lost she seemed to turn 

Resigned. The world could not discern 

That in her thought, though far away, 

They walked together day by day. 

The face that had been sad for years 

Began to smile. The shadow cleared 

Away. She never seemed so fair. 

And all who knew her everywhere, 

Were glad to see the change. She took 

A part in village life. Her look 

Of kindness brought the children near, 

Who lent an ever-willing ear, 

And youth and gray-haired, thoughtful men 

Were glad to welcome her again ; 

To aid in childish sports was no 

Disgrace, she thought, no vain employ, 
She loved to hear the overflow, 

The gleeful shout of youthful joy. 
But those who knew her well before 
Those evil days had come with sore 
Affliction for our broadspread land, 
Could something deeper understand. 
They saw beneath that smile a shade 
That on her drooping eyelids weighed, 



EGLANTINE 115 

In every joyous loving word 

A deep, sad note was plainly heard. 

Could they more deeply read, they might 

Have learned her kindly mood was quite 

Unselfish ; sympathy and love 

For human kind bore her above 

Our common aims. So humbled pride 

And blasted hope were sanctified. 

She loved to make the stricken glad, 

Encourage every fainting heart. 
To save the tempted, and the bad 

Induce to act a nobler part. 
The reverend pastor found her face 
Increased his power. There all could trace 
The truths he meant in words to teach. 
Clear lessons, in a voiceless speech. 

The dear young girls, her daily care — 
By her example drawn — must share 
In some of those fine traits, and grew 
More like her every day. But, though 
A holy, spotless life was taught. 
She never had a wish, or thought 
To make their dail^ lives more sad. 
She rather tried to make them glad. 



1 1 6 EGLANTINE 

True holiness was not in mood, 
But in the life, and heart renewed. 
So saints might be as blithe as birds 
Of June, and yet be saints. Not words 
But moving spring. All things of earth 
Save man sing praises from their birth. 
Her tasks for head and heart combine, 
And work was light at Eglantine. 

Two years — alas ! how quick they fly, 

With all their load of dust or gold. 
They may come back to testify 

In some great court the judge may hold. 
Since May had come two happy years ! 
A summer day as long appears. 
And when the time to leave drew near, 
Each never seemed to each so dear 
Before, and many hours were spent 
In words soul-born and eloquent. 
And confidence by one yet young 
Who to the wiser sister clung : 
Advice from one who knew full well 
How time might break the fastest spell. 
May laid her plans with youthful eyes ; 
The other knew the world's disguise. 



EGLANTINE 

A few more days, and then " farewell," 
Oh, bitter word, how like a knell ! 

When autumn came with cooler air. 

And leaves began to die and fall, 
The reaper came to gather there. 

And Annie's mother heard the call. 
No love nor care could now defend 
Her first, her last, and truest friend. 
Now she was left alone. " Oh, why- 
Should I remain ? But I will try 
In trust to wait, my treasures all 
Are safely stored, I wait my call." 
A married cousin came to live 
In their lone house, and was to give 
A home to her, should she incline 
To tarry still in Eglantine. 
Henceforth it was her happiness 
To kindle hope, and ease distress. 
What Alfred left by will to her 
She had not used. " He would prefer," 
She thought, " to have it spent for good 
Of God's own poor : " for them she would 
Be almoner, and when she brought 
Her aid to some poor soul she taught 



117 



Il8 EGLANTINE 

The lesson of that boundless love, 
That brought the Saviour from above ; 
That He was ready to receive 
The vilest one who would believe. 
There were some ladies, poor and old, 

Quite desolate, to whom she went 
And read, and some sweet story told, 

Replete with joy, but reverent. 
By some slight act of kindness done. 
These poor old hearts were quickly won. 
So for a time, a smile they wear ; 
They felt an angel had been there. 
The children on the green would leave 
Their sports and run to her, receive 
Her pleasant word with beaming eyes, 
And hope she would some play devise. 
In Christian circles, she would bear 
A cheerful face, and her full share 
Of entertainment give ; she had 
No wish to lead, would only add 
Her thoughts, but they were always true 
And kind, without a sting, and drew 
All eyes and ears and held them chained. 
By melody of love unfeigned. 



EGLANTINE 1 19 

She seemed a pilgrim from some shore 

Where angels live, to whose sweet tongue, 
Though kindness once, ours is no more 

Than dialect, quite rude and unsung. 
But Annie loved to " do His will," 
And therefore she was wise. The skill 
To understand God's word and way 
Is given to those who will obey. 
One day in spring, an oriole 
Alone piped sadly to console 
Himself in loneliness. His bright. 
Gay coat, like golden light, 
Betrayed his constant aimless way 
Upon the treetops' yielding spray. 
Then Annie murmured, " Art thou come 

My friend, my bird of lifelong choice ? 
Your loneliness is burdensome, 

But you will sing with gayer voice. 
Have you not brought some news for me ? 

In gardens where no summer ends, 
While sailing far o'er land and sea, 

Have you not found my long-lost friends ? 
Your bright wings glow like tongues of fire, 

Perhaps you came from yonder sun. 



I20 



EGLANTINE 



Are they now soaring high, and higher ? 

Have you no word, not one, not one ? 
Alas ! my fiery oriole. 

You do not hear my call, but I 
One day, a sin-delivered soul, 

On brighter wings, shall upward fly." 
When five years more had passed away, 
In leafy June, at break of day. 
From watching by the dying bed 
Of one who carefully had fled 
From her, in health, with fevered brain. 
Had Annie hardly strength to gain 
Her door, for she had passed a night 
Of terror, falling like a blight 
Upon her loving soul. Her strength 
Was gone, and she was sick at length. 
A woman strongly vilified, 

Suspected of a crime — a man 
She loved fell strangely sick and died, 

Who loved her not — the story ran, — 
Was drawing near to death without 
One hope of heaven. Her heart, still stout 
In unbelief, refused to hear 
The message, that her end was near, 



EGLANTINE 121 

But tortured by some unknown thought, 
She writhed in agony, and naught 
Would hear of sin, or death, or God, 
But on life's fearful border trod 
In darkness, lost without a guide. 
A loving angel stood beside 
Her bed, and talked of Christ, and prayed, 
iVnd through the dreary darkness stayed, 
And tried with gentle words to gain 
Her confidence. " You talk in vain," 
She said ; with glowing, sunken eyes 
Gazed round, and strove in vain to rise : 
Then with a hollow voice she cried. 
In part confessed her crime, and died. 

The watcher suffered by that shock. 

And fever raged in her brain. 
The humble cot awaits her knock, 

And music of her voice in vain. 
Some days pass by — no change for good — 
'Tis silent in that neighborhood. 
A multitude have offered aid, 
Some flowers brought, some by her stayed. 
One day the doctor watched a long. 
Long time, and thought, " We may prolong 



122 EGLANTINE 

But cannot save." As he retired 
An anxious friend by looks enquired. 
" A few more days," he faintly said, 
With husky voice and bowing head. 
The sick one read his anxious face, 

Remembered what she oft had seen, 
And knew that in a narrow space 

Of time, would drop that dreaded screen 
That hides the spirit land. " I wait 
Thy bidding, Lord, before the gate," 
She said. Some felt a hope when May, 
Expected, came, that very day. 
It was a joy to see this friend 
Once more, now at the end 
Of life. The younger, almost dumb 
Because affliction thus had come 
Upon them, mingled words and tears ; 
One look confirmed her strongest fears, 
But Annie, calm and beautiful, 

Received her with a happy smile. 
Her speaking eyes, so wonderful, 

Revealed the heart that knew no guile. 
The words of tender greeting o'er 
While yet their hands were clasped : " Before 



EGLANTINE 

Another Sabbath sun," she said, 
" I shall be gone. I do not dread 
The change, but willingly await 
God's call. Yet earth I do not hate, 
'Twas made for paradise, till sin 
And crime, disease and death came in. 
I seem to journey homeward led, 

My kindred all have gone before ; 
I linger when the rest are fled, 

With new-made friends, just at the door. 
Not many years to come, both they 
And we who live shall join for aye 
In one great band, the battle won, 
Beneath the e3^e of God the Son. 
Some hours of confidence were spent. 
And May learned wisdom almost sent 
From heaven, and laid the treasure deep 
Enshrined within her heart to keep. 
And told her hopes, and not the least, — 

To see her at the South some day, 
A guest at her own marriage feast. 

When some kind acts she would repay. 
She read aloud the holy book 
And Annie seemed almost to look 



123 



124 EGLANTINE 

Into the depths where human eye 
Yet fails the secrets to descry. 
The friends of all her early years 
Drawn in by sympathy and fears 
For what, to her they may not tell, 
Believe, but do not say, farewell. 

'Tis July fourth, the nation shout 

Their joy for victory and peace ! 
But this departing soul, devout 

And hopeful, waits for her release 
In accents low, restrained, and sad, 
" The land to-day," she said, " is glad! 
Ten years from Gettysburg have passed, 
And now, my friend, I come at last." 
Then step by step her vital powers 
Were yielding with the passing hours. 
" Farewell, dear friends, I thank you all, 

And wish I could my peace impart 
To each. I hear the Father's call, 

But still may hold you in my heart." 
Those friends to speak or move forbear ; 

May holds her almost nerveless hand. 
And hears sweet words of love and prayer 

At last she could not understand, 



EGLANTINE 125 

Her lips have ceased to move. Her eyes 

A moment with strange brightness glow. 
What did she see in air or skies ? 

Not till we follow shall we know. 
*Twas then the spirit took its flight, 
Forever freed from death and night. 
A smile, the pain could not efface, 
Still lingered on that faultless face. 
The waiting friends in silence bow 

Expecting the returning breath, 
Of one they never loved as now, 

So true in life, so fair in death. 
Soon night her sable mantles spread 
Upon the hills. With softer tread. 
And thoughtful mien, men walked the street, 
And almost whisper when they meet. 
They look upon the ground, and speak 
Not much, for now all words are weak ; 
But all are sad, for young and old, 

The rich or poor, the low or high, 
Of some kind action could have told 

Concealed from every other eye. 
That gave them courage to pursue 
Their upward course with heaven in view. 



J 26 EGLANTINE 

Now years have passed, but to the mound 
Where sleeps that dust, the sacred ground 
Is worn by passing feet. Sweet flowers 
Are always there, by passing hours 
They droop and fade, but so they should, 
For so depart the great and good. 

The sermon of a life without 

A stain is matchless. Men may doubt 

The preacher's word, refuse to hear, 

But loving kindness they revere. 

Thus did the now departed preach, 

From week to week in faultless speech; 

The vilest could not take offense. 

And none denied its eloquence. 

Some hardened men would turn and look. 

As though an angel wandered by, 
And but for her, the sacred book 

They would have thought a priestly lie. 

The seeds of Christian virtue sown 
By her pure words and life, have grown 
To trees with fruit, and year by year 
Increasing evermore, they rear 



EGLANTINE 127 



And wave their heads in many lands, 
Supporting weary hearts and hands, 
And making beautiful and straight 
The way, that leads unto the gate 
Of heaven. 



The Legend of the Serious Club 



Compiled from a very Ancient Manuscript, Composed 

BY AN Unknown Author Who Lived at 

AN Uncertain Period 



EDITED BY 

IGNOTUS NEMO 



Ibartfort, /B>a^, 1886 



Begenb of ti}C ^mone Cfu6* 

PREFACE. 

Some time ago, not earlier than 1870, part of a sin- 
giilar manuscript fell into my hands. It was written 
in a somewhat antique and careless style of penman- 
ship, not easily deciphered. As it was a fragment, not 
much attention was given to it until a few weeks ago, 
when most of the remaining part was found — unfor- 
tunately in a fragmentary and abused condition. 
Having the whole, it seemed worthy of more consid- 
eration, perhaps ; on my part it was a mere curiosity 
to know what might be the subject. The task of ex- 
amination was not a light one, but the labor was re- 
warded by finding that it was a kind of doggerel his- 
tory of a c/if^, probably of very ancient times. In its 
details, however, there was some slight, very slight, 
resemblance to the work of this club, and for that 
reason, and, perhaps, for the pleasure one feels in res- 
cuing a work of antiquity from destruction, it will be 
presented to you at this time. 

The labor of transcribing was very great, and, in 
some instances, on account of the injuries it had sus- 
tained in being kicked around all that time, it was 
necessary to supply some lost words, but in all cases 
with what evidently was the meaning of the original 
text. 



132 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 



Who the author was, or where or when he lived, 
does not appear upon the manuscript. The internal 
evidence, to be drawn from an examination and com- 
parison of the words, will be left to some future 
editor. With this explanation, most of this produc- 
tion — all, except those portions that were mutilated 
beyond recovery — will now be presented to you. 



^egenb of t^t ^mom €fu6* 

One summer morn, while yet the air 

Was fresh from nature's dewy rest, 
And yet the sun concealed its glare 

Behind the dawn's own golden rest ; 
While sleep, kind nurse for weary hours, 

By chemic arts, or magic skill, 
Restored in man his wasted powers. 

And gave him strength to work and will, — 
There came a sound of running feet, 
And words of those who gladly greet 
A friend they hoped to see — some one 
Important for a scheme begun. 
Not many yet their work pursue, 
Nor walk along the avenue ; 
But those who did, before the door 
Of some fair homes, a score or more 
Of baskets, boxes closely bound, 
For unknown uses would have found ; 
If they had guessed, they might have thought 
Some instruments had there been brought. 



134 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

To work those problems of the age 

That mighty minds to-day engage : 

Which would be right ; these men might meet 

The question what the world shall eat. 

Not long, before a ponderous car 

Came rumbling up the silent street, 
They heard its thunder from afar, 

And saw its horses, proud and fleet. 
They had no precious time to waste ; 

Within the caverns of that ship 
The instruments and stores were placed. 

As men for stormy seas equip. 
There, high, on velvet cushions placed, - — 
Upon whose brows, severe, were traced 
The marks of thought, and sober care. 
Reclined the brave, the wise, the fair. 
And when the last had found his place. 
The driver trimmed the reins with grace. 
And said strange words the coursers knew. 
Who, then aroused, impatient grew ; 
With nervous step and fiery eye, 
They panted with the winds to fly. 
With solemn mien and eye intent. 
That dignity to honor lent, 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 135 

With no world-winning thoughts or arts. 
The sober company departs. 
Their goal, the west — they look not back, 
Of strength and will there was no lack. 

DEPARTURE. 

Then swifter and swifter the coursers are flying, 
The chariot rolls like a ship on the billows ; 

The rumbling of wheels, and the echoes replying, 
Are rousing the sleepers, still fast to their pillows. 

Before they can open their eyes to discover 
What singular tumults around them are sounding, 

What dangers, unlookt for, about them may hover, 
The steel-covered feet in the distance are bound- 
ing. 

The fresh, bracing air of the sweet summer morning 

Is a balm on the cheeks that come out to its 

greeting, 

The pearls of sweet dew all the fields are adorning. 

The wild singers choose the young dawn for their 

meeting.. 

The morn has the light once in Paradise shining, 
A new life is through all our arteries flowing ; 



136 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

The charms of the body and spirit, combining 
With health's gift of beauty, are on the cheeks 
glowing. 

The serious company, lost in its thinking, 
Awoke from its dream to this vision of glory, 

All nature, delighted, is thankfully drinking 
From fountains unequaled in dream or in story. 

JOURNEY. 

The stored-up vigor of the four 

Good steeds, at length subdued, no more 

They dash along, and those who rode — 

Most dignified — a gentler mode 

Enjoyed. The green world, spread around 

Where all things beautiful abound, 

Was balm for tired eyes, a sweet 

And pleasant medicine, replete 

With healing power, for hearts distressed. 

For weary heads, and souls unblest — 

Words freely came, as wild birds sing. 

Kind words, because they all were friends, 
While wit, with jokes that had no sting, 

A keenness to the pleasure lends. 
The farmer, with his scythe and hoe, 

Was busy in his fields. The strong 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 137 

And patient ox, straight to and fro, ^ 

There dragged the lazy plough along. 
The young green crops marked out the field 
In squares and stripes. The meadows yield 
A grateful feast for sheep or cows, 
Who oft stand thinking, 'neath the boughs, 
Of some far-spreading, noble tree, 
As happy as a cow could be. 
When by some home, retired and lone. 
They passed, a wistful face, unknown, 
Would peep around the house, or through 
A space a curtain, hung askew, 
Had left, a place that eyes might use — 
Let no kind heart the grace refuse. 
Sometimes appeared a youthful face, 
But oftener the eye could trace 
The wrinkle lines of care and age 
So soon our common heritage. 
This mountain way had sudden curves 

And steep ascents — a stony road — 
Requiring strength of limb and nerve 

To drag the half-diminished load. 
Along the margin of a wood, 

Half-lost among the stubborn reeds 
9 



138 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

And water-loving brotherhood, 

A runnel hastens to the meads 
Below. So sweet its song, so clear 
Its wave, men love to linger near. 
To cool the tongue, and bathe the hand. 
And think this might be fairy land. 
What joy to be a bird, and dwell 
By wood and stream, in some wild dell ! 

Then up they journey toward the sky. 
Yet further from the smiling plains, 

And far away can cast the eye 

Where beauty all the summer reigns ; 

But rest not, for our souls aspire 

To something greater, nobler, higher. 

Still upward, upward, on they go. 

Some walk for love of exercise. 
With halting, careless step, and slow, 

And gained new lease of life. The eyes 
Were pleased ; they had no thought of care 
Their lungs were filled with mountain air. 

Far toward the east each eye could trace, 
Across the tideless sea of green, 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 139 

By well-known signs, a cherished place, 

Though hidden by the leafy screen ; 
Where treasures lie of price untold, 
More choice than lands, or gems, or gold. 

They pass the ancient, royal oak. 
That spreads its faultless branches wide, 

Where green palms dews from heaven invoke, 
Whose roots the whirlwinds can abide. 

It lonely stands — its glory o'er — 

The sacred Druid comes no more. 

They shouted at the lake's first gleams, 

A crystal bowl with emerald rim : 
The sun sends down his thirsty beams 

And drinks, yet even with the brim 
Returns the theft, and makes redress 
With showers from heaven, and soft caress. 

At length the lofty height was gained ; 

So pleasant was that mountain way, 
They almost wish a part remained, 

But on that mild and sunny day. 
Upon this summit, wild and free, 
Now sounds their hour of Jubilee. 



I40 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

THE BANQUET. 

That vulgar thing, the appetite, 

Began to play its pranks. In spite 

Of all that there delights the eye, 

It would be king, and no reply 

Availed ; so on the portico, 

Through which an errant breeze might flow. 

The work began. All offer aid. 

Upon the boards a cloth was laid, 

More white and clean than driven snow. 

The baskets seemed to overflow 

With good things for the feast. 

From sunny climes, from south and east. 

Well-chosen viands, fresh and young, 

That seemed to melt upon the tongue. 

With fish and fowl of tender years. 

And fruit from far off hemispheres. 

From Greece and Spain, though far away, 

Came presents for this holiday. 

'Twas worth a long day's journey here 

To look upon the banquet spread. 
While some, admiring, waited near, 

Some others thought time slowly sped. 
The spoils of berries much adored. 

From Mocha's far off burning plains, 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

When out of silver vases poured, 

Breathed fragrance worthy ancient fanes. 
Not many minutes passed away 

Unused when each had found a seat. 
Indeed, brave men were there that day, 

Prepared a well-cooked foe to meet. 
How they would face the leaden fire 

We surely cannot tell, but when 
With knives and forks the foes expire. 

There are no braver fighting men. 
Great deeds of valor there were wrought. 

And piles of obstacles removed, 
While questions of profoundest thought, 

By faultless tests, dismissed or proved. 
It was a day of honest hearts. 

In which old friendships to renew 
With cakes and jellies, fruits and tarts, 

And justice, they were prompt to do. 
A stranger might have heard the clear 

And kindly laughter ringing out 
Upon the hills, and some more near 

Anon sweet words, almost devout. 
And so the swift-winged hours all past. 
The thought of former meetings cast 



141 



142 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

A shadow, or a golden glow, 

As memory brought the long ago. 

By turns they spoke of other times. 

While some were sad like minster's chimes ; 

The most were joyous, as in spring 

The red-breasts are, who come and sing. 

Of all the kindly words they said, 

But these remain, the rest have fled. 

With tone and manner suiting well, 

Each one, in turn, a picture drew 
Of something that the club befell, 

And each the hidden meaning knew. 

AJAX. 

Men felt that heroes all were dead 
When Homer bowed his weary head. 
And, since there was no bard to sing, 

No second Troy was built to fall. 
With no prophetic harp to ring. 

The moderns shrank to pigmies all. 
Now, cease thy babblings, foolish seer ; 
Ajax, the mighty, still is here ! 

One sunny day, in years gone by, 
The banquet o'er, for sport they try 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

Their strength and skill upon the nine ; 

And then one seized the ball, 
With eye unerring marked the line 

In which a blow should fall, 
And easily, as if at play, 
He sent it singing on its way. 

The pins were scattered everywhere ; 
But one went westward through the air, 
Far swifter than an arrow's flight, 

It shrieked, and whizzed, and whirled, 
With speed almost preventing sight, 

Above the hills, perhaps the world. 
Men heard, and, looking, thought of doom 
On many hearts sat rayless gloom. 

The air resists its onward course, 
But vainly, with such pent-up force 
It soon became a ball of fire, 

And glowed as seen afar. 
Still rising, ever higher, higher, 

In heaven a blazing star. 
If in the moon they see its flame, 
The learned will wonder whence it came. 



143 



144 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

After a timely discussion, another related this 
legend : 

MERLIN. 

Merlin, an old-time magician, 

Lonely is roaming about, 
Playing his pranks on the people, 

Leading a mischievous rout. 

One night the company gathered, 

No one had failed to be there, 
No one was sick or in trouble. 

No one was fettered with care. 

All made their humorous speeches. 
Moved by their fullness of glee, 

No one there thought of the morrow, 
Jolly as mortals could be. 

Appetites never were better. 

Luxuries always the best, 
Something for every palate. 

Nothing ajt first to molest. 

Some, as the evening was passing, 

Felt a sensation quite strange. 
Sounds in the ear all unmeaning, 

Achings with pinchings exchange. 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 145 

And in the air there was mischief, 

Almost an imp could be seen, 
Sometimes the gaslight would flicker — 

What could the mystery mean ? 

Be careful, tread lightly, ye thoughtless ! 

Something is sure to take place, 
Legions of elfins are near us. 

Rogues of a mischievous race ! 

So it turned out in the morning. 

Something the hostess had lost. 
Who was the elf who has done it ? 

Catch him at whatever cost. 

Only we whisper the story, 

Strange as a night with two moons — 
The pattern of morals and manners 

Has pockets well loaded with spoons. 

Then others followed, in their turn, with some 
short tale of former times. 

THE CHESTNUT TREE. 

The solemn club went out one day — 
The world all know — in grand array, 
To see the hills and far away. 



146 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

Intent to gain what good might be, 
In chestnut burrs, besides to see 
The autumn-tinted maple tree. 

To bring the nuts back home again. 
They took great sacks, just four and ten, 
With tools to work like earnest men. 

The moon was mild, the sun was bright, 
Glad-hearted all, they surely might 
Expect another day's delight. 

Then eastward on the hills they rode, 
By pleasant homes, where peace abode, 
A quite contented, jolly load. 

They reach a grove that seemed to say. 
Here chestnuts grow, and any day 
A man might take a load away. 

Conducted by the man of will. 

They searched, and searched, around the hill, 

The leader calling loud and shrill. 

For he was sure at last to win. 

At length some doubting thoughts begin, — 

" Come, follow ! follow ! " — what a din. 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 147 

At last he cried, " Come here, come here ! " 
And there the long-sought nuts appear 
Upon the ground — and loud they cheer. 

Some one looked up, and, strange to see. 
The chestnuts found — how could it be ? — 
Were found beneath an old oak tree. 

They haste away. Some thought the guide 

A bit of Aaron's rod did hide ; 

Some only speak their thoughts aside. 

'Twas soon forgot, the goal was gained. 
The stores consumed, the goblet drained, 
But something yet is unexplained. 

TROWELS. 
Some scientists have sought to find 

The reason why this company 
To solemn thoughts are so inclined, 

In this sad day of jollity, 
When all the world with giddy hearts 
Are ever playing childish parts. 

They search in vain, and look surprised — 
Quite easy — but they had no right 



148 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

To know. The truth to them disguised, 
To us is clear. They may gain light. 
But, now no peeping spy is near. 
We may explain, and have no fear. 

One day to dig all were intent. 

Perhaps for gold, or gems, or flowers ; 

But with a will to work, unbent. 
They sought the hills and woody bowers ; 

A friend in court, the time to save. 

To each a tiny trowel gave. 

Alas, poor things ! the roses yield 

Sweet life, and flowers with fairy eyes 

Fall down to die, in grove and field, 
And watch no more the tearful skies. 

Why should we tJms the smiles requite 

Of those dear children of the light ? 

While coming home the truth came out ! 

They were entangled in a net. 
The trowels had been borne about, 

And seen by everyone they met ! 
By which 'tis claimed they have been won 
To the ancient craft of Solomon. 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

The dreaded secret they must keep. 

They stand in fear, and that is why 
A lonely place they always seek. 

With solemn face and drooping eye, 
They speak not, laugh not, seldom smile, 
And musing weary hours beguile. 

MOTHER GOOSE. 
Long years ago it was, one night. 

When Mother Goose a welcome gave 
To her young brood, then gay and bright. 

And all seemed happy, fair, or brave. 
Those goslings were of any troop, 

Not clad in any foppish style. 
But neatly dressed, a varied group, 

All more than fair with winning smile. 

But then, no doubt, they all were young ; 

The naughty world they had not seen. 
May not have heard the flattering tongue ; 

All beautiful, with brow serene. 
They might have hissed some now and then, 

For that the royal goslings do ; 
But nowhere else, 'mongst birds or men, 

A choicer brood man ever knew. 



149 



I50 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

To Mother Goose each gosling comes 

With sideling step, and honk, honk, honk ! 
She gave kind words and sugar plums, 

They answer gave with honk, honk, honk ! 
And when they all in silence stand 

She said, " My dear ones, let me tell 
A secret," and at her command 

They sat them down, and listened well. 

" Though man," she said, " now rules on earth. 

He only rules by borrowed force. 
With heart and reason little worth. 

His tastes are vulgar, low, and coarse ; 
And, like a worm, he burrows deep 

In cellars, vaults, and mouldy towers, 
Intent his earthly gold to keep, 

A servant watching weary hours. 

" But we on crystal waters glide. 

Or on the sweet and balmy air. 
Among the clouds we may abide, 

And spend our sunny summers there. 
Men, gazing downward, live below. 

And turn again to common earth. 
And that is all of them we know — 

A dismal death, a useless birth. 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 151 

" He seeks the world in chains to bind, 

But as an eyeless snail he creeps, 
And leaves a track of death behind, 

And all that live in trouble keeps. 
He rules ; but not because of gtrength, 

'Tis some strange gift of fate unknown ; 
But he will find his place at length, 

And trodden earth shall cease to mourn. 

" But we who live upon our wings 

Shall shake away all earthy mould, 
And, soaring up to nobler things. 

Will live for aye, and not grow old." 
The goslings took the story in, 

And freed their wings with honk, honk, honk ! 
It seemed their flight would now begin. 

They bade good-by, with honk, honk, honk ! 

CAVERN. 

Upon a noble quest one day 
The cohort journeyed to the hills, 

Upon a slowly rising way, 

Not fearing wind, nor heat, nor chills. 

The car with fiery color glowed. 
An omen dread. The staring eyes 



152 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

Of dwellers on that mountain road 
Betrayed their wonder and surprise. 

Some chose upon the top to ride, 

But paid for their exalted seat 
In scratches, fright, and wounded pride, 

And torn, disordered curls. The grace 
Of new-bought silken hats was^ marred 

By scrapings rude, and oft they seize 
Or loose. 'Tis said some cheeks were scarred 

By ill-bred boughs of thoughtless trees. 

They sought the ancient robber tower. 

Secure 'mid battlements, with moss 
O'ergrown, the home of crime and power, 

On dizzy heights, where hate might toss 
His victim helpless down to doom. 

There was that dungeon in the hills. 
An endless, rayless, dismal tomb. 

The thought of which our life's blood chills. 

Among the few in these last times, 
They dared the hated depth to tread : 

The haunting ghost of ancient crimes. 
With fleshless form and eyeless head. 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 153 

Might bid them stand ; but they will know 

The secrets of that horrid den, 
Whose walls have echoed groans of woe, 

The dread of demons and of men. 

The rings still rusting in the walls. 

Where men, fast bound, shed unseen tears, 
Told solemn tales. In these dark halls 

But dropping water marks the years. 
Alas ! how deep, repentant sighs. 

And hollow wails, and hopeless groans. 
And wild, despairing, ceaseless cries 

Have risen to those earless stones ! 

With spirits saddened by the place. 

They hastened to the brighter day, 
The sight of loving nature's face 

Drove all the dungeon's gloom away. 
The world was fair, and life was sweet. 

And God was good, and friends were near ; 
The hidden thorn we sometimes meet. 

But roses bloom throughout the year. 

Note. — At this point there was an interruption of 
the narrative. Many leaves were gone, while others 
were so torn that their meaning could only be conjec- 



10 



154 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 



tured. Occasionally there would be one or two lines 
complete, followed by a break. 

It was easy to see that many things of great inter- 
est were referred to; for instance, about great literary 
gatherings, where the sublime productions of old 
authors were acted or read; about glimpses of sum- 
mer seas, and, strangest of all, on one occasion the 
Serious Club were engaged in some mystic movement, 
it was said, reminding one of the Virginia reel. Of 
course, it was a misapprehension. 

The largest fragment seemed to be an episode upon 
a beautiful lake. A mountain rose on one side so 
abruptly that there was only room for a road between 
them. On the water's edge was spread a sumptuous 
feast, under a magnificent colonnade, whose pediment 
rested upon Grecian pillars, the whole festooned and 
frescoed in a marvelous style, while yachts, shallops, 
and gondolas floated bird-like upon its silver surface. 

One of the members of the company, apparently 
the musical man, having strolled along the lake, at- 
tracted by some musical sounds, seems to have fallen 
under the power of an enchantment. In that state 
he listened to rapturous music, that continued to 
sound in his ears a long time. 

On his return he was continually singing the fol- 
lowing song, which he brought back to us from fairy 
land : — 



LEGEND OE THE SERIOUS CLUB j^^ 

SONG OF THE PENSIVE POLLYWOG. 
A pollywog swam with a wriggling tail, 
More swiftly than speed of the lazy snail, 
About in the warm and the land-locked pool, 
With never the thought of a tutor or school. 

The mud-covered bottom and wet, reedy shore 
He once had examined, but knew nothing more ; 
He felt a strange yearning down, down in his soul 
For something more noble, beyond his control. 

His grandsire the bull-frog, with dignified mien, 
Contentedly sat in his arbor of green, 
A model of greatness he seemed to be there, 
So stately in form, and in color so fair. 

The sun seemed to glow in his great crystal eyes, 
As he sat looking up to the measureless skies ; 
And flies, the sweet morsel the king-frogs love, 
Were constantly corning from somewhere above. 

The soul of the pollywog fainted within, 
Comparing himself with his noble kin. 
" Alas ! what am I but a colorless lump, 
I wiggle my tail, but I never can jump." 



156 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

And as he looked up with his sorrowful eyes 
A hideous serpent his parent descries, 
And slowly behind glides the horrible foe — 
His grandsire could jump, but he does not know. 

The bullfrog is singing there down by the shore 
The very same song that he sang us before. 
When night is at hand, p-r-r-r-og, p-r-r-r-oog ; 
When men are asleep, p-r-r-r-oog, p-r-r-r-oog. 

A spring and a splash, and the fight is o'er, 
The bullfrog will sing his sad anthem no more. 
The polly wog thought what a blessing to be 
A mere bit of jelly, and live in the sea. 

AFTER DINNER. 

'Tis time to change the fruitful theme. 

A world of pleasant things remain 
Unsaid. As in a cherished dream, 

Sweet thoughts seek utterance in vain. 
Within our homes what pleasant hours. 
How many rides for fair wild flowers 
To woody hills and summer sea. 
With jingling bells, like winds to flee. 
Now let us sit and think. A long 
Procession comes with flower and song. 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 157 

But thornless roses all. No word 
Discordant all these years was heard. 
Remembrance will be sweet when years 
Shall bring their shadows and their fears. 
A gentle hand has spared us all 
A long, long time. No sting, no fall. 
But this will not be always so. 
Some one will be the first to go. 
Peace ! this is not a pleasant thought. 

And then they rose, and strolled around 
Upon the hill. Perchance they caught 

Some fitful breeze. Some on the ground 
Or rude-built seats, or rocks grown gray, 

Sat down in little knots of two or three, 
To chat the one last hour away. 

Beneath some kind, protecting tree. 
Some neared the cliff, where once, 'tis said, 

The fleeing Indian maiden, brave. 
Leaped down, for she in vain had fled, 

And gave her life, her life to save. 
Some climbed the tower, and drank delight 

In gazing on the world below, 
And felt how sad that coming night 

Should spread o'er all the garb of woe. 



158 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

The sun was isinking in the west, 

But one who still would linger there, 

As in the Paradise of rest, 

Thus talked with spirits of the air. 

REFLECTIONS ON THE TOWER. 
Fair, exceeding fair, the picture 

Stretched before admiring eyes — 
Gentle hills and broad-spread meadows, 

Rising gently toward the skies. 

There the lake lies, calm and restful. 
While the sunbeams softly shimmer ; 

From the hardly noticed wavelet 
Soon will cease the fading glimmer. 

Known are fields and groves and meadows 

By the varied tints of green. 
And the lakes and running rivers 

By their far-off reaching sheen. 

Villages and quiet hamlets, 
Where the weary might retire, 

Half-concealed, but yet detected 
By the heaven-directed spire. 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

Dearest far the well-known city, 
Cherished, ever-welcome home, 

Lifts to guide her children thither. 
High in air the glittering dome. 

Yonder, guarded by the maples, 
See that house with pleasant lawn, 

Care and taste and perfect order 
Speak of life's attractive dawn. 

That one has an air neglected ; 

Life is not quite what it seemed, 
Shadows have begun to gather, 

Vanished much that youth had dreamed. 

See that other — Lord, have pity ! 

If a noble spirit, bound 
With the lazy and degraded. 

There her mortal lot has found. 

Now behold an empty cottage, 

Door ajar, and windows gone. 
Rotten floors, and desolation, 

Hope and life had both withdrawn. 



159 



l6o LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

Saddest of the world's sad pictures ; 

Think what might have happened there, 
Happy home and childish laughter, 

Anxious years and grinding care, — 

Broken hearts and hopeless future ; 

Parent with a reckless son ; 
Grief that must be borne in silence, 

Cure for which the world has none. 

Sad, sad life of burning sorrow. 
Toil and fainting without hope ; 

Waiting, longing for the shadows 

Of the life through which they grope. 

But we came not here to sorrow, 
Drive all gloomy thoughts away : 

Some delights of long-lost Eden 
May be met on earth to-day ! 

Turn our faces westward, eastward, 

Scanning nature's tapestry ; 
Objects growing smaller, fainter. 

Disappear in mystery. 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB y6\ 

Countless homes, beyond our vision, 

Dot the outspread, fairy land, 
Round whose altar-flame and hearthstone 

Happy groups, adoring, stand, 

Thirsting for a life more noble. 

Prizing treasures of the mind, 
Jewels of the heart and spirit, 

And ecstatic pleasures find. 

Do the spirits seek the mountains. 

That the blast upon our race 
May be hidden from the vision 

By the dimming veil of space ? 

Is it Paradise around us. 

Or the dungeons of the lost ? 
Are you happy, unseen being. 

Or forever homeless tossed ? 

Do I hear a rustling garment, 

Or a footstep's gentle fall ? 
Something passes with the sunbeam. 

Hear, O spirit, hear my call ! 



1 62 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

In the midst of foolish dreaming 
Came the consciousness to mind — 

He must find his waiting comrades, 
Or be left by them behind. 

THE DESCENT. 

All are now ready, and downward they go, 

Down from the mountaintop's charming retreat. 

Every glad face had a health-telling glow — 
Merry words ring out with humor replete. 

Horses now rested and eager to race. 

Drivers ambitious and proud of each span, 

Started for home with undignified pace. 

Onward, and onward, and downward they ran. 

Under the branches of wide-spreading trees, 
Old oaks, and chestnuts, and evergreen pines, 

Covered with thickets, excluding the breeze. 

Through whose dense verdure the sun dimly 
shines. 

The partridge, affrighted, is sounding his drum ; 

Whippoorwills, tauntingly, call from afar ; 
Shadows still longer and longer become. 

Far in the east has arisen a star. 



LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 163 

Much had been hoped for, much was enjoyed, 
Nothing was wearisome, no one was sad. 

Hours of pure happiness, peace unalloyed, 

Hours when the soul was unfettered and glad. 

Days may be beautiful, banquets like kings, — 
Though in the gardens of pleasure we roam. 

Fly through the world with a spirit's bright wings. 
Still the heart longingly turns to its home. 

FINIS. 

The solemn club are home once more. 

They know twelve hours were spent in play. 
Without increase of earthly store — 

A truly merry holiday. 

But they had breathed a purer air. 

Their blood now flows with quickened life, 

Their spirits freed from blasting care, 
Were gladdened for a longer strife. 

The faintness of the day before, 

A score of fancied aches and ills. 
With dread of evils at the door, 

Were left unheeded on the hills. 



1 64 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 

Some hours were added to the past, 
But months to time that is to come, 

And memories that years will last 
When sickly age is burthensome. 



t^i (poni. 



There was a valley in the hills, 

Low-lying, dark, and wild, 
Obscured by lofty pines and firs. 

Through whose thick boughs had smiled 
No sun for years, and rarely seen 

Was nature's winged child. 

A noisy stream came dashing down 

In curves so short, that seen 
Above, was often lost behind 

The forest's stately screen, 
And gleamed far off like tiny lakes 

With borders evergreen. 

Who finds a joy in solitude, 

Loves nature's sterner face. 
May beauty in its pebbly bed 

Through summer crystal trace, 
Or music hear when winter floods, 

Down whirling, madly race. 



1 66 THE POND 

In sight, two boys had lived, ere yet 

The last wild deer had fled ; 
While one was gentle, earnest, wise. 

The other, selfish, led 
A life of idleness that bore 

Its fruit when youth had sped. 

The nobler, working spirit found 

Success and lightly bore 
Away the palm and walked erect ; 

The other, idle, wore 
No crown, while envy drops of gall 

Distilled yet more and more. 

At length, when both were men, 'twas hard 

His bitterness to hide. 
Because the fairest of the hills 

Would be his rival's bride : 
And in his soul he made a vow 

That hatred gratified. 

He did not scorn the common world ; 

To some, was more than kind. 
Had manly qualities of heart, 

Was not a whit behind 
His peers in grace of form and speech, 

And native powers of mind. 



THE POND 167 

His hatred was to one alone, 

But it had festered long : — 
Unjust — yet since he was a boy 

Each year it grew more strong. 
So jealousy will urge its slaves, 

More fierce, convinced of wrong. 

Deep-rooted in his secret soul 

Lay this unholy vow, 
" Though it might cost the work of years, 

His enemy should bow 
Beneath his scorn, and he would blanch 

The glory of his brow." 

And so he watched from spring to spring. 

And many snares were set. 
He would have sung with joy to see 

Him tangled in his net. 
Alas ! how was the innocent 

By unknown foes beset. 

Some papers fell into his hand 

One day, which, if not found. 
Would make a beggar of the man 

He hated. Quickly wound 
The smoke in graceful curls — and winds 

The ashes scattered round. 



1 68 THE POND 

He saw his rival leave the house 

That overlooked the plain, 
For all was lost — both fields and home. 

All search had been in vain, 
And to the cottage near the vale 

He moved, but bore no stain. 

The evil-minded man enjoyed 

Their fall awhile, and fed 
His hate on memories of the past, 

But he upon his bed 
Was not at rest, for stainless peace 

That giveth sleep had fled. 

And then, to drive unpleasant thoughts 

Away, he journeyed far 
From home, and came not back for years. 

But there arose no star 
For him, no God was in his heaven — 

Death would no gate unbar. 

But peace made bright the humbler home, 

And industry received 
The honored crown of competence. 

By unknown hand they were aggrieved, 
But never who their enemy 

Miofht be had once conceived. 



THE POND 169 

In the sweet home was growing up 

A child of beauty rare, 
So gentle in his daily mood 

He seemed an angel there 
To aid them all the woes of life 

In thankfulness to bear. 

One day the wanderer returned, 

Increased in vulgar gold, 
But cherishing his former hate. 

His victims to behold 
More near, he watched within a grove 

Of hemlocks, dark and old, — 

Beyond the gateway to the dell. 

Where now is seen a wall 
Of some old dam, or ruined house, 

Down past which waters fall. 
And foaming leap against the rocks 

With never-ceasing call. 

He felt a pleasure — grim indeed — 

And laughed as might a fiend. 
Intent to see and not be known. 

With broad-spread branches screened. 
Behind a tree, thief -like, he stood. 

And, listening, forward leaned. 



70 THE POND 

But in the yard a young boy played, 

Caressed by loving air. 
A watch-dog, huge and curly black. 

Appeared his sports to share. 
And watched with never-tiring eye 

And more than human care. 

At length they walked across the bridge. 

The little hand was fast 
And almost buried in the curls 

Of his great friend, who cast 
An anxious look around and seemed 

To think some foe had passed. 

And it was so, for when he saw 

The stranger well he knew 
The dark-browed man could be no friend. 

His low growl louder grew, 
And from his eye the darting fire 

Showed love and instinct true. 

But little Robbie, fearless, said, 

" Stop, Leo, do not scold 
The poor man, who, perhaps, is tired." 

And then, with fearless air. 
Reached out his hand to give the flowers 

He had been gathering there. 



THE POND 171 

And said, in childish way, " Come home 

A little while and rest ; 
Mamma will give you something good 

To eat." Then Leo prest 
Between the two ; he did not like 

The unknown, frowning guest. 

The stranger looked upon that face, 

With beauty rarely seen. 
And through his great, blue, speaking eyes 

He saw his heart, yet clean 
In native beauty, king unstained, 

In childlike love serene. 

An older Robert looked at him 

Out of each guileless eye, 
And other features, pictured ones, 

He knew in years gone by. 
He did not speak, nor move, but wished 

It were a dream, a lie. 

Then Leo urged the child away : 
He feared the man's strange look, 

And, safely back, he sat and watched. 
Not once his post forsook, 

But was a tireless, sleepless guard 
All night beside the brook. 



172 THE POND 

The stranger saw but that small face — 

It burned into his soul, 
He seemed an angel from the skies, 

With glowing aureole. 
He thought, if angels walk this earth, 

Let darkness on me roll ! 

For then there is a God above, 

And I'm a fiend accursed. 
He fled. A strange and fiery storm 

Seemed on his head to burst. 
And no sweet stream was flowing there 

To quench his raging thirst. 

He thought not where he went, nor cared. 
Nor where the path might be, 

Nor that the sun was sinking low. 
Obscuring bush and tree. 

One impulse drove him madly on, 
One instinct, strong — to flee. 

And then, for it was long ago. 

Primeval forests, dense, 
Reached through the vale and far away. 

In wild magnificence. 
And few might thread their crooked paths • 

Lone nature's residence. 



THE POND 173 

The woods he did not fear ; a boy- 
He sought the wild game there. 

At length he realized how dark 
It was. Uncertain where 

The path might be, he stopped, and turned 
About, with bootless stare. 

No guiding star was in the sky- 
To point out whence he came, 

And, in the darkness lost, the woods. 
In voiceless words, proclaim 

That he must in their temple wait 
The sun's relighted flame. 

This consciousness, at last, awhile, 

Recalled to calmer thought. 
And he sat down upon the trunk 

Of some dead tree, once caught 
By a resistless storm and hurled 

Below with ruin fraught. 

It was a dreary place to spend 

The night. The clouded sky 
Denied all hope from rising moon. 

The great pines towering, huge. 
Dark shadows on the lighter green 

Soon faded from the eye. 



174 THE POND 

There came a sound like running streams, 
But faint, — a welcome sound. 

" A hope at last." He vainly trod 
The unseen, tangled ground, 

But no kind stream to be his guide 
In that dark search was found. 

'Twas but the rising evening air 

Intoning nature's hymn 
Among the needles of the pines 

And then it grew more dim. 
And darkness held him helpless bound 

In its embraces, grim. 

An owl, as if in mockery, 

Called from a distant tree ; 
So silent then was that lone place 

That its coarse voice would be, 
In those long points of soundless time, 

A pleasant melody. 

The silence of the wood became 

A torture. Then the air 
Was still, and nature's many tongues 

Spoke not. In fragrance rare 
The petals burst ; he seemed to hear 

The dew descending there. 



THE POND 175 

Then in this blackest silence came 

A fearful wail, as some 
Lost soul might make when doomed 

Alone, all time to come, 
In dismal wastes to wear away 

Existence burdensome. 

" Spirit accurst," he said, " I love 

You not ; come not to me. 
I will not answer to your call, 

Nor turn your glare to see. 
Though fastened by a thousand snares, 

I live, and I will flee." 

No prisoner ever felt a chain 

More strong, — he could not fly. 
But in the tireless, fiery grasp 

Of his keen mental eye 
He saw himself, and conscience came 

Sharp-tongued to testify. 

Long years of jealous, causeless hate, 

With plans to tread his foe 
Into the dust. The paper lost, 

And its consuming glow 
That robbed a rival of his home, 

A vengeance sure, but slow ; 



176 



THE POND 

A wish — the tongue would shame to speak - 

Had failed, for Leo came, 
A faithful guard he could not bribe. 

He bowed his head in shame, 
And God, whom he would never own, 

Seemed calling him by name. 

How slowly dragged the hours away ! 

The moments grew to years, 
Yet there was nothing in the morn 

For him but hopeless fears. 
On every side some goblin lost 

His hated visage rears. 

'Twas midnight, and the woods were still — 
When all save him seemed dead. 

And then there came a rhythmic sound, 
A velvet-footed tread, 

A rest, a step more light — it comes 
To him by instinct led. 

He knew the sound ; a chilling sweat 
Was on his brow. He strained 

His eyes in vain to pierce the veil. 
But darkness, starless, reigned. 

The step came near — the vantage ground 
The unseen foe had gained. 



THE POND 177 

And then two fiery eyeballs glowed 

With paralyzing light, 
Like kindling bale-fires, signs of doom, 

A terror in the night. 
He had no power to move, was dead, 

All save the power of sight. 

But then he cried out in despair, 

A cry so full of deep 
Unmeasured agony, the woods 

Were wakened from their sleep. 
The night birds screamed, the small beasts strove 

In darker holes to creep. 

The dreaded creature, then so near, 

From this unearthly sound 
In fright drew back and fled. His steps, 

With strong and cat-like bound, 
Among the dry and fallen brush 

Crashing far off resound. 

In that strong cry went up a call, — 

The first for many a year, — 
To God, and then he sank in wild 

Bewilderment and fear. 
Believing dreaded death, in more 

Than dreaded form, was near. 



1^8 THE POND 

'Tis said that men profoundly sleep 
Who know the coming day 

Will be their last. So, on the ground, 
Of hope without a ray. 

He slept. Then all his life in dreams 
Came back in dread array. 

Unwelcome memories came up. 
He fain would then forget 

Unhappy, friendless, bitter years. 
With tangled snares beset, 

A history in which he seemed 
In shame to reap regret. 

Among the throng he saw a face — 
The world has none more fair — 

The first and only one he loved. 
Who blest with loving care 

His childhood's early years, and then 
Was gone, he knew not where. 

She laid her hand upon his brow 
Without a word of blame. 

" My boy, because you called on God 
But once," she said, '' I came. 

Still call — call tireless, day and night, 
Until He speaks your name." 



THE POND 

And then she faded from his sight. 

Again there rose a cry, 
Sweet music to the listening woods, 

First name our lips can try, 
Whose love is only less than God's, 

Whose heritage, the sky. 

He feared no more the solitude. 

Beneath his head the moss 
Was downy. In his heart there shone 

A ray of love across 
The dead sea of his life, where late 

But rayless waves did toss. 

The golden dawn at last shone through 
The trees with mellow light — 

A fairy temple, fresh with dew. 
With his returning sight 

He knew the way, but pondered long 
Upon the solemn night. 

And ere he left the place, a vow 
Was made with bowing head. 

Of full return where he had wronged. 
With heart relieved, he sped 

Away, emerging from the woods 
When dawn was glowing red. 



179 



l8o THE POND 

In toil the years passed by, at first 

Not prosperous in gold ; 
But then he learned to search for truth 

In fountains pure and old, 
And longed to feel that guilt, at last. 

Was from his conscience rolled. 

The day the sum was gained to pay 

The debt of vanished hate 
Brought news of Robbie's orphanage. 

" Too late — alas ! — too late." 
But yet, he could repay the son, 

Now lone and desolate. 

The home his buried rival lost, 
He bought. An aunt then came 

To guide the house and bear the rule — 
A well-beloved dame. 

And Robbie then, and Leo, true, 
His honored guests became. 

The guardian dog at first would watch 
With seeming puzzled brain, 

With well-marked signs of discontent 
And doubt, and would remain 

A tireless sentinel. His host's 
Caresses were in vain. 



THE POND i8i 

A few years passed in peace. The youth 

Did not forget his dead. 
He never could. Nor did he know 

The man who clothed and fed 
Him thus was once his father's foe, 

Implacable and dread. 

But he for years had ceased to hate, 

His heart had felt the fire 
That glowed around the crucible 

And donned its white attire. 
Mankind was then a brotherhood, 

And God a trusted sire. 

One day the dark-winged angel called. 

He knew his end was nigh, 
And to his revered pastor told, 

With penitence and eye 
Bedewed with tears, the burning truth. 

And then content could die. 

The secret was profoundly kept 

For many years. The son 
By will possessed the heritage 

His father lost, and won 
A place among the great, and slept 

In peace — his work well done. 



QYli0ceffaneou0 (poema* 



[1S77-] 

Down by the sea those pleasant nights, 
As gentle waves caressed the shore, 

We watched the passing ships and lights, 
While silver moonbeams danced before. 

We traced the glittering groups on high. 
As they rose upward from the sea, 

To waltz around the northern sky, 
Or swiftly westward seemed to flee. 

We spoke of many pleasant things, 
Of countries, arts, and heroes true, 

And gladly would have taken wings. 
This wondrous world of God to view. 

We talked of friends of other years. 
Our eyes again might never see. 

And wished, up 'mid the circling spheres, 
To learn what star their home might be. 



1 86 ON THE BEACH AT FALMOUTH 

We could not see the gathering crowd 
That marched up on the other shore, 

Nor did they strike their harps so loud 
Its spirit tones came floating o'er. 

A hand in wondrous beauty made 

Then beckoned to us through the veil. 

As if to offer gracious aid, 

But through its palms had pierced a nail. 

Dear friend, we need not now deplore 

Those faultless hours that then were passed, 

Only we grieve to say " no more " 

Of pleasant things that are "the last." 



(Reaching ;^owarb* 

[1878.J 

Sister Amelia ! long vacant thy place, 

Friend of my boyhood, my mother's first-born, 

Now can I look on thy meek, thoughtful face, 
Call back the virtues thy life did adorn. 

Allen, my brother ! the lamb of our fold, 
Better, far better, than I who remain, 

Faultless ; poor clay could thy spirit not hold, 
Earth could thy purified soul not retain. 

Brother and sister, 'tis long, long ago, 
Sadly we laid you to sleep the last sleep, 

Great was the grief, but, as those who well know. 
Safely the angels their loved ones will keep. 

Long was the journey before you did meet 
In those sweet fields the delight of the soul. 

Yet have you learned on the same golden street, 
Father is seekino; the same chosen oroal. 



1 88 REACHING FORWARD 

Yet do you know of the three still below, 
Under the cloud of the sin-darkened sky, 

Doubting and fearing, but striving to go 
Blameless, wherever our pathway may lie. 

Long is the way from the dread inky stream 
All must pursue to the bright jasper walls. 

Where heavenly glows, unspeakable gleam, 
God's holy light, on the sanctified halls. 

Can you not linger awhile by the shore. 
Waiting for those still in strife to appear ? 

Or will the love of the Son evermore 

Quench all the sin-tainted love we feel here ? 

Wings like the angels have borne you away, 
Twenty long years with the speed of the light ; 

Chilled by the damps of the earth, we delay ; 
Have you forever gone up from our sight ? 

We by the years are much changed as they roll. 
Time on our faces and hair sets its seal, 

Sorrow and sin add new scars to the soul, 
Know us you will not, in sorrow we feel. 



REACHING FORWARD jgg 

Yet will we hope, though I cannot explain, 

There we shall meet — yes, not distant the hour — 

Nought can our souls from our full bliss detain, 
Joy will increase as the soul gains in power. 



lX>^xepmn^e of ^prtn^* 

The winter is over, 

The ice bond is broken, 
And soon will the clover 

Of summer give token. 
Now " whispers " most lightly 

The child of the morning, 
That, smiling most brightly. 

The hills are adorning. 
Now hear what they tell us. 

With voices so airy. 
And lips to make jealous 

The queenliest fairy : 

Come away, brother ! 
Come away, sister ! 
Out of the darkness 
Into the sunlight ! 
All things show beauty. 
Air is most balmy, 
Showers refreshing. 
Nothing to trouble, 



WHISPERINGS OF SPRING 

Everywhere pleasure. 
Dance with the fairies, 
Talk with the sunshine, 
Thank with bright colors. 
Pray with sweet odors, 
Dear, mighty Maker, 
Life is most blissful. 

We mortals shall waken 

From death's wintry slumber, 
And some will be taken 

To joys without number ; 
The soul's last great morning 

In gardens of pleasure. 
Heaven's flowers adorning, 

In bliss without measure. 
There Christ will the sun be, 

All eyes on Him center. 
Out sin will in haste flee — 

Oh ! who there may enter ! 



191 



(^ (Wlounfain (^rooR. 

Under the leaves on the hill 

Gathered young drops from the sky 
Joined in a loving embrace, 

Sank down they could not tell why. 

More drops and more in the dark, 
Join and move on in the race ; 

Grow to a tiny clear rill, 
Ever increasing its pace. 

Creeping among the rude stones, 
Turning aside for each root, 

Stirs not a grain of the sand 
Under its delicate foot. 

Sweet, gentle murmurs are there, 
Soft as the flight of the dew, 

Heard by the sly little elves 
Hiding down out of our view. 



A MOUNTAIN BROOK 

Gathering strength with each step, 
Grown from the incoming rills ; 

Marks with dark verdure its path, 
Skirting the foot of the hills. 

Now, in the bright world of light. 
Softly, strange, marvelous tales — 

Secrets of earth and of air — 
Tells to the listening vales. 

Merrily over the stones. 
Under the mossy green banks, 

Gracefully wanders along, 
Chanting continual thanks. 

Lifelike, it leaps from the rocks. 
Waving a banner of foam ; 

Silent, it flows through the pools, 
Clear as the heavenly dome. 

Willow leaves kiss its smooth cheek. 
Silent sleep lily and rush. 

Into its mirror-like face 
Roses look over and blush. 



193 



194 



A MOUNTAIN BROOK 

Faster it dashes along, 

Lashing, impatient, its shore, 
Moving the stones in its bed, 

Louder and louder its roar. 

But is it chanting a dirge. 
Sad that the journey is done, 

Or is it music of joy, 

Springing from victory won ? 

Child of the wondering clouds, 
Restless forever must flee — 

Joyfully shouts, as it hides 
In the mysterious sea. 



C^e (Ribe in t^c ^unboirn^ 

Up somewhere in the Granite State, 

Among health-giving- hills, 
Where city guests are pleased to wait 

The cure of many ills — 
The host an ancient coach had found, 

That sixty years had run, 
Though old in style, it yet was sound, 

For well the work was done. 

Four youthful girls — a blameless load — 

Possession of it claimed. 
And gayly in the " Sundown " rode, 

For so the coach they named. 
As room in front but two could find. 

To gain the seats they lack. 
The other two were placed behind, 

Thus sittinof back to back. 



196 THE RIDE IN THE SUNDOWN 

And so they rode the hills along, 

By lake or shady way, 
Waking the wild woods with their song, 

A merry, laughing play. 
The bright flowers by the road they seek 

Around their hats to twine ; 
Then nature's bloom, and youthful cheek. 

And flowing hair combine. 

As they drew near a well-known place — 

A name in ancient song ^ 
Out rushed the old, with anxious face, 

Out rushed of young a throng ; 
For such a sight was new to see, 

Rare such a sound to hear, 
They knew not what the cause might be, 

Whether to mock or cheer. 

While some a rudeness in it found, 

" Riding in such a way," 
Yet most, with gentler, kinder minds. 

Had nothing ill to say. 
An old man, faint by walking long, 

Stops, leaning, when he hears 
The accents of that pleasant song. 

That strangely met his ears. 



THE RIDE IN THE SUNDOWN 

And when he saw the " Sundown " old, 

That like his own did seem, 
Then sixty years were backward rolled, 

And youth returned in dream. 
" In such a coach as this," he sighed, 

" I rode my wedding day, 
And she who sat then by my side 

Seems with me here to-day. 

" Ah ! how the thoughts of joys or tears 

Rush burning through my brain ! 
Yes, what I did twice twenty years 

I see with joy or pain. 
How pleasant were those acts of grace ! 

How did we all rejoice ! 
Quite clear can I behold each face. 

And hear each well-known voice." 

A transient dream the old man had, 

A dream of joy untold. 
And scores of years, some glad or sad, 

A moment's space did hold. 
The distance in the view was bright, 

Later came cause to grieve. 
And, though most sweet by morning light, 

'Twas very drear at eve. 



197 



1^8 A RIDE IN THE SUNDOWN 

Since forty years his own loved ones 

Had slept beneath the sod, 
Neighbors and friends, father and sons. 

Were gathered back to God. 
All houses changed by fashion's will, 

Save one with timbers stout, 
That stands alone beyond the hill, 

With doors and windows out. 

Old man — coach — house — all out of time ; 

Three wrecks, helmless and low, 
Last relics of his manhood's prime 

Of sixty years ago. 
In prayer he bowed his snowy head — 

The words we do not know. 
Save one short line of all he said, 

" O Father, let me go ! " 

How sweet the springtime of our years, 

Birds, flowers, and summer cloud ! 
Yet winter sheds but icy tears. 

Spreading her snowy shroud ! 
The " Sundown " homeward back was drawn, 

Its youthful load to leave ; 
They saw of life the rosy dawn. 

The old man saw the eve. 



^^out for t^c (^cktane. 

[Written for Battle-flag Day, but timely in connection with 
Buckingham Day.] 

A day that we long shall remember with pride, 
But not for the shouts of the gathering tide ; 
No, not for the tokens of joy on the street, 
Nor brilliant array of the soldiers we meet, 

Nor presence of some who are honored and great, 
Nor music, nor banners, nor palace of state ; 
But pride for the men who were noble and brave. 
Who periled their lives home and country to save. 

With dignified step, and with serious face, 
Where outlines of sadness we easily trace, 
They marched with the banners by victory sealed, 
But thought of the years of the camp and the field. 

To them were familiar the rifleball's sound. 

The roaring of cannon, the blood-reeking ground, 

The bayonet charge and the cavalry dash, 

And death-bearing shell with its murderous crash. 



200 SHOUT FOR THE VETERANS 

They saw their companions fall down by their side, 
Where bleeding and broken and mangled they 

died ; 
Some breathed in the rice swamp the poisonous 

breath, 
Some languished in prisons as grievous as death ; 

Or if some the wearisome hospital leave, 

They carry a crutch or a dangling sleeve. 

Some, down on their knees 'mid the heaps of the 

dead, 
Have held for a moment a dying man's head, — 

Directed his thoughts to the Saviour above, 
And heard for his friends the last message of love. 
When still was his heart and exhausted his breath, 
They laid him down there in the garner of death. 

Then mourn for the hero, devoted and brave. 
Who sleeps far away in a rude, nameless grave ! 
We never may know where his ashes did fall, 
But angels will watch them and gather them all. 

Yes, shout for the veterans who pass us to-day ! 
Your banners and arches and garlands display, 
Burst forth in a strain of the loftiest song. 
For thousands of heroes are passing along ! 



Z^i Otrvofe. 



When spring brings warmer sun and showers, 
And apple trees display their flowers, 

And leaves their plumes unroll ; 
When bees begin their merry hum, 
We know a welcome guest has come, 

The princely oriole. 

He comes among us quite alone ; 
I hear him now in solemn tone, 

Companionless — bereaved. 
His anxious call and tender note 
Down from the groves with odors float — 

The strain of one aggrieved. 

Last winter, roaming far away. 
He lived a life of ceaseless play, 

And danced with aimless feet. 
His broad domain of groves and fields, 
Choice tropic fruits unstinted yields — 

He labors but to eat. 



202 THE ORIOLE 

He, changing like the summer gales, 
Roved through the Andes' sheltered vales, 

Or, if he choose, might go 
Where never-conquered nature reigns. 
In vast and verdure-loaded plains, 

Where sea-like rivers flow. 

By spring he hates his gourmand ways. 
And thinks of pleasant summer days, 

Of northern homes and skies ; 
Then, over seas and islands fair. 
And broadspread lands to cooler air. 

And young bird-home, he flies. 

Here, lonely, knows not what to do. 
But sings " t'schippee t'schippee too too 

A tuf a tea kerry." 
But others come of plainer dress, 
Of humbler song, presumption less. 

And two birds now are happy. 

Then joyfully they work and sing. 
And fly around on fiery wing 

For strings, and lint, and hair. 
By well-tied cords a plan they trace, 
Then weave, and sew, and plait with grace. 

High swinging in the air. 



THE ORIOLE 

The winds will toss their nests in vain ; 
The leaves protect from sun and rain ; 

The fields afford good cheer. 
They watch, and eat, and rest, and play. 
Enjoying every passing day, 

Till four small heads appear. 

Then busy are the fiery pair ; 

They guard their nest with tender care 

Against foes plotting ill ; 
And dart about the fields and trees, 
Their tiny, luckless prey to seize, 

Those four small mouths to fill. 

A few days more their wings have grown, 
And all away, unseen, have flown, 

To travel wide and long. 
They wander over hills and fields, 
They, greedy, take what nature yields — 

But ended is their song. 

A careless, fickle runaway — 
To aid his mate he will not stay, 

Nor guard his birdlings four ; 
The love that urged his solemn song. 
And made him watchful, gentle, strong, 

Controls his heart no more. 



203 



204 ^^^ ORIOLE 

But over hills and over vales, 
Upon the balmy air he sails, 

Made welcome everywhere ; 
And from his store along the way 
He gathers food from day to day, 

Not knowing want nor care. 

But nothing long his flight detains 
From southern fruitful hills and plains, 

And honey-bearing flowers. 
There feasting every passing day, 
He lives the gayest of the gay, 

Through all our winter hours. 

Proud " fiery sylph," return in haste ! 
Come ! then will flowers adorn the waste 

Long wet with winter's tears. 
We miss the flashing of your gold, 
And those strange notes so sad and bold. 

Dear sounds of bygone years ! 



A maiden watched a frail sea weed, 
Now in, now outward borne, 

From fastenings of its rock-home freed. 
By constant rolling worn. 

'Twas landward by a mild surf brought, 
That kissed the shore with glee ; 

Then hastened back, as if it sought 
Its mother's arms — the sea. 

The frail weed seemed to have a will. 

An aim to reach the shore ; 
But after hours it floated still. 

No nearer than before. 

The watcher grieved in this to find 

Of life a parallel. 
When we are borne resistless, blind, 

But whither none can tell. 

But if our goal we cannot reach. 

And on an unknown shore 
We rush, break on a sunless beach. 

To roll back evermore, 



2o6 THE SEA WEED 

Yet sure there is a hand unseen, 

Kind, infinite in power ; 
And naught so great, nor yet so mean. 

But feels it every hour. 

No sorrow, pain, nor hopeless strife, 
No failure, grief, nor groan, 

No bitter pang of spirit life, 
But all to Him is known. 

The surf may dash, the storm appall, 
Our flesh the rocks may rend, 

And we to unknown depths may fall, 
Yet wait — God is our friend. 



(^u^umn* 



The oTove was clad in robes of green, 
To greet its guests, the seasons fair ; 

No nobler garb the eye hath seen, 
Nor fairer plumes dance in the air. 

Both spring and summer smiling came 
To tarry with their grateful host ; 

The garments still remained the same, 
Of forest, tree, and field the boast. 

But autumn comes — and what a change ! 

The modest green aside is laid, 
Then lo ! a transformation strange, 

That fancy never could have made. 

No eastern prince, with all his store 
Of robes of silk, and cloth of gold, 

Though yet he had the kohinoor, 
Could splendor such as this unfold. 

Only less brilliant than the glow, 
That charms the beauty-loving eye, 

When light does into pictures grow. 
On canvas of the evening sky. 



2o8 A UTUMN 

The grove, perhaps, is using art, 
Puts on its fairest robes and smile, 

Imploring autumn not to part. 
But linger with us yet awhile. 

But no ; those tints of peerless grace 
Are not of youth, the healthful bloom, 

But hectic flush, where we may trace 
The dreadful sign of coming doom. 



The apple tree gave shadow, 

The old gray rock a seat, 
While lake and sun and hillside 

With smiles each other greet. 

The village was below us — 
Monadnock, stern and cold ; 

Blue hills outlined the landscape, 
Delightful to behold. 

The clear, blue sky seemed loving ; 

Things distant hovered near ; 
Refreshing was the zephyr's 

Soft whisper in the ear. 

Not many words were spoken ; 

They had so little power, 
They could not paint the landscape. 

Nor longing of the hour. 



2IO THE APPLE TREE 

The words we spoke were holy — 
From God we would not hide - 

We leave them in His keeping, 
His judgment we abide. 

The grudging hours go swiftly, 
And from the belfry call, 

Time, shorter than a rose leaf, 
Might measure by its fall. 

As man)^ dark forebodings. 
Their shadows cast before, 

I seemed to hear the " Raven's " 
Prophetic " Never more." 

In frequent pilgrim visits 
To greet the rock and tree, 

I saw no more the mountain. 
Nor hill, nor summer sea. 

The heart can winnow treasures 
Out of the chaff of life, 

And keep them safe and shining 
Through all our days of strife. 



THE APPLE TREE 211 

With every weary footstep, 

Along life's thorny ways, 
Is found a heavenly pleasure 

In thoughts of other days. 

In future joy or sorrow, 

My eyes within I'll cast. 
To taste again my treasures 

Of friendship in the past. 

On magic wings I'll take thee, 

Though oceans roll between. 
To spend one blessed moment 

Upon that hillside green. 



@tt?ap from ^omt. 

It may be honor, power, and wealth 

Beyond our hope upon us fall, 
But by the altar of our soul 

We hear a voice, " Can this be all ? " 

In pleasure's fullest, sweetest hours, 
Possessing all things to us dear. 

Unwelcome comes a sense of loss : 
We thirst for springs that flow not here. 

The purest, holiest souls grow sad, 
Though faith be strong, and fortune kind, 

For with their hope, their joy, their peace, 
There is a good they cannot find. 

What is it — can it not be found ? 

No, not on earth, for here we roam 
As strangers, moving day by day 

Without remembrance of our home : 

But faint, vague feelings yet remain 
Of something good beyond compare, 

Of dreams we cannot now recall. 
Of tints of evening lost in air. 



A WA V FROM HOME 2 1 3 

Our souls were planned for nobler lives, 

For residence in Eden's bowers, 
For converse with our maker, God ; 

For friendship with the heavenly powers. 

With reason that unclogged might grasp 

Creation's secret, now concealed ; 
Endowed with powers to comprehend 

Things dark, not yet to us revealed. 

The soul in its unmeasured store 

Has uses, purposes, and powers 
Not exercised, to us unknown : — 

We grope our way where darkness lowers. 

As, born behind its prison bars. 
The bird a plaint in sadness sings, 

For something it has never felt, 
The unknown uses of his wings. 

So long astray in fetters bound. 

On shoreless, starless waters tost. 
Our souls are hungry for the wealth 

Our father in the garden lost. 



JULY 22, 1880. — RAIN. 
From leaden skies the constant rain 

Pours on the roof and drooping trees, 
At first a joy — but now a pain, 

A tiresome sound of dreary seas. 

Invited by this gloomy night, 
Old, painful hours unbidden come, 

The pleasant things are out of sight, 
And every voice of joy is dumb. 

The blasted hopes, the wounded pride, 
The icy sweat, the endless night, 

The grief we could to none confide, 
The days whose noontide had no light. 

Far back we see ourselves in tears, 

By stagnate pools, with thorns at strife. 

In ashes lay the dreams of years, 
O cheating hope ! How sad is life ! 



CHANGING MOODS 215 

JULY 23, 1880. — SUNSHINE. 
The morning comes with cloudless skies, 

Each leaf is clothed in fresher hues, 
The drooping- flowers again arise, 
And nature every charm renews. 

The heart itself then changed appears, 
Can joyful, golden hours perceive ; 

Unnumbered all the vanished years, — 
More bright the dawn for clouded eve. 

O joyful days with friends well tried ! 

Fresh blooming fields, bright skies above ! 
O childhood's sports, and manhood's pride. 

And hearts that loved as we did love ! 

We think of hope on outspread wings. 
And gathered sheaves of nameless price ; 

The grateful soul delighted sings, 
And earth is almost paradise. 



When winter visits us, we say 
Alas ! the dismal season comes ; 
It chills our blood, our sense benumbs, 

And drives the pleasant world away ; 

The enemy of leaves and flowers, 
Of singing bird and humming bee, 
Of babbling brook and summer sea. 

Alas ! those dull, unhappy hours. 

Not so — but winter is a friend. 

All living things must have their rest, 
A priceless boon for souls distressed. 

Ever awake — a dreadful end. 

The leaves, in tints of holiday, 

Drop down to sleep, by autumn freed, 
And by them falls the wondrous seed, 

To wait for summer's quickening ray. 



217 



WINTER 

A million buds have taken form 
On tree and plant of every kin, 
While summer's magic webs, within, 

Repose secure from cold and storm. 

By fingers more than fairy rolled, 
There, sleeping all the winter hours. 
Are leaves and trees and fruits and flowers, 

A thousand years cannot unfold. 

The trees are silent as in sleep. 
And leafless all save evergreens. 
But they, poor things, love solemn scenes, 

And in the graveyard vigils keep. 

When every child of beauty sleeps, 

Then thoughtful winter comes and spreads 
A snowy mantle on their beds, 

And watch like loving mother keep. 

14 



(Uof (^fe of (parabiee IXfcie ^et 

N , June 19, 1882. 

A wild and rock-walled tiny dell 

Lies hidden in the hills, 
Where mingling treetops cast a spell ; 

Where gather crystal rills. 

The dark, piled rocks seem headlong cast 

By Titan's hand of old ; 
Thick, hanging mosses, clinging fast, 

Thrive in its waters cold. 

The stream leaps down with noisy tread. 
By jagged rocks compressed, 

Or gently on its pebbly bed 
Expands in glassy rest. 

A ceaseless song — perhaps of thanks, 

Is noisy near my feet, 
But muffled underneath the banks. 

And far off faint, but sweet. 



NOT ALL OF PARADISE WAS LOST 

Eolian harps are in the spray, 
A wild bird adds his note, 

While half-heard songs from far away- 
Through God's great temple float. 

Familiar forms approaching seem, 
Some smile with earthly love. 

But more with dazzling beauty beam. 
From holy realms above. 

The unseen power divine is here. 
In rock and stream and tree ; 

My soul has felt his presence near, — 
I bow with bended knee. 



219 



@6a Qtof. 



Deep-rooted in its ancient place, 
Down where no human eye can trace, 
The mountain rests its changeless base. 

Upon its sides are cities fair, 

Dear homes embowered with thoughtful care, 

And smiling fields, and balmy air. 

But on its summit, hoary, proud. 
Now hangs an all-concealing cloud, 
That hides its features like a shroud. 

God's foot-print on the world appears ; 
His track is in the rolling years ; 
But into night his head he rears. 

No mortal eye hath seen his face. 
Or found his secret resting place ; 
The thrones of wisdom, power, and grace. 

He tells not where his stores are laid ; 

He has no need of creature aid ; 

He, only, knows why men were made ; 



ASK NOT 221 

Reveals not why his works were done, 

Nor reason gives to any one, 

He counsels for his acts with none. 

But ask him why in early age 

The famine, storm, and flood should rage, 

And men in bloody strife engage ; 

What mean those cities ruined, dead, 
On every hill and valley spread, 
Where innocence in vain hath bled. 

Behold, coarse wickedness and pride 
With heel upon the saint, who cried 
In vain for help, and pleading died ! 

Ah, why this life of torturing fears. 
This burning stream of bitter tears, 
Unceasing all the finished years ! 

Ask not — he will not tell you why, 
Although he hears your bitter cry, 
And his Almighty arm is nigh ; 

Though his great heart of perfect love 
All depth exceeds — all height, above — 
And is more gentle than a dove. 



222 



ASK NOT 



Ask not — till in that heavenly place, 
Before his throne, transformed by grace, 
You gaze upon his unveiled face. 



(n-— . 



As the evening gathered shadows 
On a mount alone I strolled, 

And to gain a wider landscape 
Climbed a block of granite old. 

Barren rocks were all around me ; 

Hillsides slept in soft repose ; 
Farther on the mountain masses 

Billow over billow rose. 

Over all, a new world opened 
Up far away towards the west 

Dimly showing hills and valleys, 
Like some fancied vale of rest. 

Floods of mellow light were streaming, 
Silver, purple, tints of blue ; 

I could almost see the cities 
And the robes of heavenly hue. 



224 



N 

Walk there groups of sinless spirits 
Where no longer there is night ? 

Of the Lamb enthroned in glory, 
Do I now behold the light. 

" And the Lamb is the light thereof!' 

— Rev. xxi: 23. 

Oh, to see the dear departed ! 

Close not yet, O glorious door ! 
Let me catch a strain of music 

Out of hearts that grieve no more. 

Here, my treasures turn to ashes, 
Or evade my outstretched hand. 

Call me, lend me wings, O spirit. 
Bear me to the sinless land ! 

Harken ! has some loving angel 
Left the presence of the King ? 

Are the sounds so softly floating 
Murmurs of a spirit's wing ? 

No — the winds blow rough and chilling 
Round these rocks, so bald and dead ; 

Cold and silent is the mansion 
Where I first must lay my head. 



As late I walked along Broadway 
When all was noiseless, dim, and lone, 
Asleep upon a threshold stone, 

A dark-eyed boy unpillowed lay. 

His harp, companion, only friend, 
Was resting silent by his side, 
And, like a watch, in love and pride. 

Seemed o'er the sleeping youth to bend. 

In years, still hardly more than child, 
His face once bright, with outline fair, 
Had now the marks of want and care ; — 

But in his lonely sleep he smiled. 

With weary feet and weary hands. 
He slept forgetful of his wrongs, 
His hunger, toil, his heartless songs, 

And tyrant master's hard demands. 



226 IVEARV HANDS AND WEARY FEET 

All day he played and sang in vain, 

And bore abuse from thoughtless pride ; 
Not much was earned, though long he tried, 

The sum required he could not gain. 

Despairing, hungry, and forlorn, 
He sank upon his cheerless bed ; 
Upon the cold stone dropped his head. 

And thought no more of gibes and scorn. 

Perhaps he dreamed of some bright land. 
Beyond the hills, beyond the sea, 
Where grow the vine and olive tree. 

Whose skies are clear, and breezes bland : 

Perhaps of childhood's early hours, 
Of brother, sister, happy years, 
A father's care, a mother's tears. 

Of summer birds, and fragrant flowers. 

O loving sleep, retain him long ! 

Poor stolen and ill-treated boy. 

Beloved by none, bereft of joy, 
The victim of a hiding wrong. 



WEARY HANDS AND WEARY FEET 227 

And ye upon whom God hath smiled, 
And showered his blessings every day, 
Be gentle when you turn away, 

And think, what if he were your child ! 

You do not like his music — well — 
It may be harsh or rude in art, 
But, yet, it comes forth from a heart 

More sad than words can tell. 

No friends, no home, no loving hand. 
Compelled to sing, and chased by fears ; 
At last his eyes refuse their tears ; 

And so he wanders through the land. 

Embrace him long, kind, gentle sleep. 
And whisper dreams of heavenly love, 
Show visions of the world above. 

Where spirits o'er him vigils keep. 



A beam of light has left its home, 
A gem in winter's glittering dome, 

And sped in trackless flight ; 
And twice seven rolling years have flown. 
Across the vast and dark unknown. 

Ere it could meet our sight. 

O beam of light, what brought you here, 
Upon our dimly shining sphere. 

Entombed and dead to lie ? 
How many years of flight were past 
Before its feeble taper cast 

A glimmer on the sky ? 

What things were seen, as on you sped 
Across the void, so cold and dead ? 

In nature's working place 
Were new worlds only now begun ? 
Or saw you those whose race was run — 

Dead, drifting on in space ? 



BEYOND THE DARKNESS 

Are groups of worlds around your star, 
Unseen by us because so far, 

Submissive to its bond ? 
And has this sea of stars no shore ? 
Might light dart outward overmore, 

And still stars shine beyond ? 

And could you in your timeless race 
Behold those cords pervading space, 

More soft than twilight gleam, 
Yet firmly binding world to sun. 
And sun to groups, and all to one. 

The God who rules supreme? 

Do spirits in their longing flight 
Above this world of death and might, 

Shine brighter as they go ? 
Was hope impressed on every face ? 
Was every eye alive with grace ? 

Or were there signs of woe ? 

With all your visits can you tell 
The place where happy spirits dwell, 

Called heaven by us who die ? 
And does it lie beyond your star. 
Where light to reach a world so far 

A hundred years must fly ? 



229 



230 



BEYOND THE DARKNESS 

Are beings pure in other spheres ? 
Or do they shed repentant tears, 

And pray, and hope, and die ? 
And have they heard the kingly tale 
Of crown of thorns, of sphere, of nail, 

And last expiring cry ? 

No answer comes — But yet one day 
My shell will burst, and I away 

Will fly with speed of thought 
To seek the spheres away from earth ; 
Then, that small world, my place of birth, 

Will dwindle into naught ; 

My new-born powers will, learning, reach 
The many tongues of nature's speech, 

And songs in unknown keys, 
The waves of light will answer then, 
And tell the tale of worlds, and men, 

Of years, of rocks, and seas. 

And I shall be as pure as light. 
Claiming in many worlds a right, — 

My Father's realm and seat. 
My soul will with that joy be fed 
It seeks in vain among the dead — 

The world of weary feet. 



BEYOND THE DARKNESS 23 1 

I there shall wondrous works behold, 
And talk with them who then were old 

Before a star did shine. 
Yes, through the Son's unmeasured grace, 
I may behold the Father's face, — 

May see the One Divine. 



(mof^et. 



Softly stole the evening shadows 
On my lonely, saddened thoughts, 

As I pondered on old friendships, 
And the losses time had wrought. 

One there came, the first that loved me, 
With the face my childhood knew. 

Pained by all my little troubles, 
No one seemed to me so true. 

In her smile was all my heaven ; 

In her arms my holy rest ; 
Her own sorrows were forgotten 

In the wish to make me blest. 

I can hear the words she uttered 

As I came with tired feet. 
Told my little tale of sorrow — 

Oh, those tones so passing sweet. 



MOTHER 233 

Many thoughts come back to grieve me 

For your unrequited care : 
Mother, in the world of spirits, 

Is it all forgotten there ? 

Came a vision of my manhood. 

With its blanks, and pain, and strife, 

With the fickle aid of fortune, 
And the cheating goal of life. 

She was sadder, but yet wiser. 

Having learned from friends to part ; 

As she laid away her loved ones, 

Two worlds seemed to claim her heart. 

Marks of passing time were graven 

On her face, to me so fair. 
And its lines, now yearly deepening, 

Told the story of her care. 

Told a story — I could read it. 

It was faithfulness and truth ; 
But her love was deeper, stronger. 

Than the burning flame of youth. 



15 



234 



MOTHER 

Then there came the years of shadow, 
Years of waiting for the dawn ; 

When she seemed alone to tarry, 
For the friends of youth had gone. 

One bright day she closed her eyelids, 
Leaving love for us to keep ; 

And because her work was ended 
Softly passed away in sleep. 

Then at last the farewell visit, 
As descending from the sky. 

Form and face of matchless beauty 
Such as only dwells on high. 

While was wiped away a dimness. 
Is it shame to hide the truth ? 

She had changed, was wiser, older, 
And I saw myself a youth. 

If my haste then made me thoughtless, 

Careless, petulant, or rude. 
Or I showed a heart unmanly, 

How her eyes my steps pursued ! 



MOTHER 



235 



Chiding, only for my profit, 
Grieving, that I was not good, 

Loved, in spite of my unkindness, 
Loved me as no other could. 

Watched through all my days of illness, 
Suffered while I was in pain. 

Ah ! I see those angel features, 
Time will try to hide in vain. 

Not the fair cheek of the maiden. 

In her early untried years. 
But my own, long-loving mother, 

As she was, again appears. 

Every line and every wrinkle. 

Every sign of weary strife. 
But they all were changed to beauty 

Glowing with celestial life. 

Gently with her hand she beckoned, 

Spoke in tones of holy love, 
" Turn your longing from the earthly 

To the gatherings above." 



236 MOTHER 

Slowly rose the parting figure, 
Fading from my mental eye, 

But the love that sweetly soothed me 
Lives forever in the sky. 



The young, at the dawn of our drama of strife, 
Are happy as birds on the gay-colored wing ; 

They think of the pleasures abounding in life. 
And, full of bright promises, joyfully sing. 

Too soon will the truth to their vision unfold, 
That life is a journey of sorrow and tears, 

The heart would not suffer the world to behold. 
But longs for relief ere the end of our years. 

The face may grow old, and snow cover the head, 
But the soul feels the sting, though we utter no 
cry ; 

The pain that is felt when the last hope has fled 
Dulls not with the dullness of ear or of eye. 

Before us some carry a joy-beaming face, 
But many by sorrowing glances betray 

How wearily onward their pathway they trace — - 
How vain is life's hope, and how painful the way. 



238 MUST LIFE BE SAD? 

Oh ! pity the stricken, not few in each crowd, 
Distorted in form, slowly limping along, 

Deep wrinkled, and scar-marked, and blackened, 
and bowed, 
The look of despair from a lifetime of wrong. 

The victim, downtrodden because he is down, 
The man who would rather be poor — and be 
just — 

The world, for the good, with its smile, has a frown. 
And blessings are poured on the low slave of lust. 

Our wealth may conceal, but it cannot prevent 
The canker and rust, and the slandering breath. 

The wound to our pride, that we burn to resent. 
The friendships dishonored, the sickness and 
death ; 

And, keener still, shame for a daughter or son. 
Some grief that we would to no brother confide, 

Suspicions of wrong that we never have done. 
And sharp, pinching want we are anxious to 
hide. 



MUST LIFE BE SAD? 239 

Vast, vast is the company turning sad eyes 

Away from their riches, and honors, and pride. 

Away from distress, and lone poverty's cries. 
Away from the good to their longing denied. 

Yes, down where the thousands are, weary or old, 
Who know what the treasures of living are 
worth. 

And weaned by their pilgrimage, thorny and cold, 
Are longing to sleep in the pitying earth. 

But life must be sad in this empire of pain, 

Whose king is grim death, and whose banner a 
pall, 

And when is perfected his merciless reign, 
His sable pavilion will cover us all ! 

But sleep there in hope — the great Victor be 
praised ! 
In spite of this king, comes a gleam like the 
sun — 
Some hand has the curtain a little upraised — 
From beyond bursts a shout for a victory won. 



The solemn voice of tolling bells 
Invades the midnight hours, 

And deep the mournful chorus swells 
From far-off spires and towers. 

And still the rolling echoes flee 

O'er widespread lands and sullen sea. 

The anxious thousands learn with pain, 
Well founded were their fears. 

Strong men forget their joys and gain, 
And shame not for their tears, 

But softly walk with bowing head, 

Uncovered by the honored dead. 

Fair homes and busy haunts of men 

Are draped in sable gloom, 
A long line slowly moves, as when 

We gather at the tomb, 
With heavy hearts, and sighs, and grief. 
And sorrow that despairs relief. 



" THE PRESIDENT IS DEAD" 

The air seems hushed. On every hill 

The softening- shadows go, 
And nature's children all are still, 

As if they felt our woe. 
The stars more sweet and mild appear ; 
The green earth drops its dewy tear. 

While many in our brother land 

Move with a softer tread, 
And some, high-born, respectful stand 

In honor of the dead : 
And there the ancient minster bell 
Rolls through the land its solemn knell. 

Far off, far off, the message flies. 

From every stranger shore 
Some human heart in pity cries, 

And love comes wafted o'er ; 
The sable sign is wide unfurled, 
And sorrow travels round the world. 

But why is this ? God does not tell. 

Nor answer when we cry, 
Although he loves his people well, 

And is forever nigh ; 
Perhaps, some Achan lurks within. 
Or public wrong, or private sin. 



>4i 



242 



" THE PRESIDENT IS DEAD" 

Then strike us, Father, if 'tis best ; 

We know Thy rod is love ; 
Within Thy hand we dare to rest. 

Oh, help us from above I 
Our eyes are dim, we cannot see. 
But in the dark we worship Thee. 



^eaf Btfe. 



Leaves, the fair children of June, 
Crown the spring forest anew, 

Joyfully swing in the air, 

Drinking in sunlight and dew ; 

Drop from their summer-long perch, 
Clad in most gorgeous array, 

Floating in autumn's soft breath, 
Aimlessly wander away ; 

Dance through the forests and groves, 
Race with the brooks and the bee, 

Waltz over meadows and fields, 
Skipping, and whirling, and free ; 

Idle as idle can be. 

Nimble as rabbit or bird. 
Living a life in an hour, 

Not a wish ever deferred ; 



244 



LEAF LIFE 

Lie down at last in some nook, 
Tired of their fullness of mirth, 

Ready to drop into sleep, 
Ready to turn into earth. 

Why should they waken again ? 

Perfect life's race they have run ; 
Full is their measure of joy ; 

Nothing remains to be done. 



Z^i 'S)ucim of i^i {pitiitee. 

From the delights of his gilded saloon, 
Fitted the thoughtless to dazzle and snare, 

Promising falsely, a coveted boon. 

Strength for hard labor and solace for care, 

Turning the stupid ones out with a jest, 

Lastly, the Pitiless went to his rest. 

Then he rejoiced in his dreaming to see 
Daily new faces come gathering in. 

What to the youthful the peril may be, 
Sweet to his ear was the bachanal din, 

Wealth he could win from his poisonous dole ; 

Fixed was his heart on the glittering goal. 

While in this reverie — visit unsought 
Came an intruder, a mother in tears, 

Bleeding in heart at the terrible thought, — 
Crushing all hope of her wearisome years. 

Thought of her son into slavery sunk. 

Bloated and staggering, shameless and drunk. 



246 THE DREAM OF THE PITILESS 

There sat a wife by a dim, fading light, 
Fearing the man who has sworn to protect, 

Beastly degraded, returning at night 

Dead to all feelings of shame and respect, 

Boisterous, vulgar, a merciless foe, 

Filling her life with unspeakable woe. 

Wandering vagabonds, tainting the air. 
Begging for charity, ragged, forlorn ; 

Poor little children, receiving no care. 

Criminals, hating the day they were born, 

Sorrowing friends who kneel down to implore, 

Gather as curses and stand by his door. 

Out of the old years to trouble his sleep, 
Unwelcome memories, numberless, came ; 

Homes that are ruined, and eyelids that weep. 
" Men will be fools," said he, " am I to blame ? 

No man is forced to come in or to stay ; 

All might do worse if I turned them away." 

Then on his pillow he rested his head ; 

Saw not the leer of the two fiery eyes. 
Marked not the fiend who leaned o'er his bed 

Whispering falsely, in cunning disguise, 
Anodynes lulling his conscience to rest ; 
Picturing treasure stores crowning his quest ; 



THE DREAM OF THE PITILESS 247 

Spinning the thread of invisble snares ; 

Deeply designing — and well does he know ■ — 
Tempting to scatter unwearied his tares, 

Scatter them where he was sure they would grow. 
Though a wail over humanity sweep 
He will not fail the ripe harvest to reap. 

Can you sleep, Pitiless ? — Dream till the morn, 
Rest on your right to grow rich by your tolls ; 

Shout for religion your bitterest scorn ; 
But from the ruins of homes and of souls 

To the Avenger arises a cry ! 

How will you hide from the wrath in His eye ? 



Through the screened window, the half-open door, 
Never seen crevices, thousands or more, 

Holes where the light itself never can go, 
Through the tough oak, it seems through the hard 

walls, 
Noiselessly, unseen, but constantly falls, 

Beauty's unmerciful envious foe. 

Casting its faded and patternless pall 
Over our pleasant things, soiling them all, 

Stealthily spreading the hue of decay 
Over our treasures, all costly and rare. 
Hidden and guarded with painstaking care, 

Changing their colors to vagabond gray. 

Hated brown snow on each table and chair, 
Covers of satin and chisellings rare, 

Marble forms faultless and spotlessly white, 
Pictures and keepSakes and new gathered flowers, 
Gems from the ocean king's deep hidden bowers, 

Humbling our pride and offending our sight. 



DUST 

Driven away, it will come back again, 
Fearing not vengeance of maiden or men, 

Silently sifting unceasingly down. 
Marring the beauty of all we possess, 
Clothing our riches in poverty's dress, 

Figureless, dirty, old sackcloth of brown. 

Truly I fear thee, O truth-telling guest, 
Heeding my clamor as only in jest. 

Giving no thought to my boundless disgust ; 
Prophet and teacher, resistless your call, 
Earthly beginning and end of us all. 

Hated, but finally conquering dust ! 



249 



16 



Pressed between two stainless pages, 
Filled with lore of by-gone ages, 

Lies a bunch of golden-rod ; 
Yellow arch of tiny flowers. 
Bright as when in autumn hours 

On their stems they stand and nod. 

All the sisterhood are lying 

Where the winter's winds are sighing, 

Underneath the solemn snow. 
Golden pledge, when summer ending 
Hope and farewell words are blending 

With the thoughts of long ago. 

Since you do not seem to wither 
In your lonely journey hither, 

Or in dark December's sky. 
Are you not some sleeping fairy, 
Straying from your palace airy, 

Where they are not doomed to die ? 



GOLDEN-ROD 

Whisper what you saw that morning, 
As you stood the fields adorning, 

Glowing in the loving light, 
Nectar in the dew-drop tasting, — 
Bows with idle breezes wasting, 

Having rested all the night. 

Did you hear the words then spoken ? 
As your slender stem was broken, 

Lifting you from dark decay ; — 
Where the summer flowers are lying. 
And your fair companions dying, — 

Up into a longer day ? 

Though a secret you are keeping, 
I will not disturb your sleeping, 

Lest you wake with scornful eye, 
And my rash attention spurning, 
To your fairy form returning. 

You should spread your wings and fly. 



251 



t^i (^eaca (ponb of T)?— e. 

[March i8, 1887.] 

Among the hills, not often seen, 

In its suspicious, dismal bed, 
There lies a pond, with mystic sheen, 

And waters silent, waveless, dead : 
They flow not in, they ebb not back — 
Are void of life, and inky-black. 

Beyond the banks the hemlocks spread 
Their boughs. Up from its watery face 

Black trunks project, all charred, 'tis said 
By some great fire that scourged the place - 

Perhaps directed in its path 

A bolt from heaven was sent in wrath. 

Men may have added to the height 
Of water, but it looks as though 

A rill from Styx had come to light. 
And gathered there its overflow. 

A dark, repulsive, dismal spot ; 

Upon our blooming earth a blot. 



THE BLACK POND OF W E 

The strangers and those native born 
There feel a dread, and quicker breath. 

No skill could this lone spot adorn ; 
It wears the hue we give to death. 

Men say if lilies there could live, 

No odors would their chalice give. 

There is a legend — true or not — 
Who knows it hateful it might seem, 

For hated deeds or dismal spot 

Had caused some man a frightful dream. 

A fitting place, if men were there 

Who in a bloody deed would share. 

'Tis said a stranger once, alone, 
Had foolishly displayed his wealth. 

From whence he came was never known. 
Nor if he went away by stealth. 

But he was seen to pass that way, 

As darkness came one summer day. 

Though no one knew, the world all thought. 
And hinted, what they did not dare 

To trust to words. While proof was sought. 
They dream of horrors, and forbear. 

They search each secret hiding place, 

But dread to see the dead man's face. 



253 



254 THE BLACK POND OF W E 

One man there was who sullen grew ; 

He seemed the gaze of all to fear, 
And from his former friends withdrew ; 

A lonely man, with look severe. 
Self-doomed, how gladly he would fly 
The dreaded verdict in each eye ! 

But to the war he marched away, 

And bravely fought, and bled, and died ; 

There leave him till the Judgment Day ; 
The waters will no tale confide ; 

The secret they so firmly hold 

To living men will not be told. 

Where'er the dead man's bones may lie. 
In wood, or field, or slimy deep. 

By night some hear a dismal cry. 

They hear again for years in vSleep — 

Deep, hollow moan of fixed despair, 

From some doomed soul who lingers there. 



^ome ®ap* 



Some day, some day, I know it well ! 

'Tis graven on my soul ! 
Somewhere, somewhere, I cannot tell, 

God hides the fatal scroll. 
Somewhere, triumphant, we shall meet, 
And thither tend our restless feet. 

The future, veiled to human sight. 

Is full of what shall be. 
I watch the dawn beyond the night, 

I hope — I cannot see ; 
But think, perhaps, " some day " is near, 
And a well-known voice I seem to hear. 

When left in silence and alone. 

Where'er I chance to be. 
In visions long familiar grown. 

Then comes my love to me ; 
While roses bloom, and zephyrs blow. 
And skies assume their sunset olow. 



256 



SOME DAY 

You love me, did I hear you say ? 

No words are half so sweet, 
The song they sing in heaven for aye. 

With every wish complete. 
The story I have often told 
Grows truer as the years grow old. 

Ah ! friend, I am not worth your love, 

I would not do you harm ; 
Then flee away, my queen, my dove, 

I cannot break the charm. 
Then in the past my way I'll grope. 
And dream, and dream, of vanished hope. 

I cannot change, the lot is cast ; 

One longing fills my soul ; 
A bound, whence none return, is past, 

One hope, one wish, one goal. 
But I will save, though earth may frown. 
The brightest gem, with spirit's crown. 

Some day, from holy, dreamless sleep, 

When calls the Crucified, 
When earth, at last, can only keep. 

My dust, and sins, and pride. 
Transformed, made pure, I shall arise 
To the home of grace beyond the skies. 



SOME DAY 257 

And I will watcli by the river side, 

Till you at last are found ; 
Then we through gardens where abide 

The saints in holy ground, 
Through endless cycles, realms unknown. 
Will upward, upward seek the throne. 

The Father's face we may not see, 

But, oh ! the bliss of flight. 
From every power of sin set free. 

In Christ's transforming light, 
Towards nobler heights, above to soar, 
And grow more Godlike ever more. 



Full seventy years ago, one day 
The farmers gathered up their hay 

On those far-spreading plains 
That rest upon the eastern slope 
Of great Wachusett, — a year of hope, 

And fruit, and ripening grains. 

Emerging from his tent of green, 
With solemn tread, and dogged mien, 

Came marching down the last 
Historic Bruin of those hills, 
With high-born majesty, that thrills 

And stirs, like trumpet blast. 

What brought the monarch from his seat 
And mountain fastness, strong and meet, 

To that dull world below ? 
Perhaps — the last — he would have told 
The story of his nation bold. 

That now no man can know. 



BRUIN, THE LAST KING OF WACHUSETT 259 

The news spread wide like flash of light, 
The village trembled in its might ; 

Each brave man grasped his blade, 
Or gun, or scythe, or fork, or hoe, 
And noiseless seeks the ancient foe ; 

Great men were there that day. 

As in pursuit those braves appear, 
The king turned back, but not for fear, 

He knew not how to yield. 
He only sought to meet the shock. 
Resisting like a granite rock, 

Upon an equal field. 

The watching wives and daughters saw 
The hero toward Pine Hill withdraw. 

And, all unarmed, resolved 
To turn him back. One kingly head 
Against a host with weapons dread. 

In vulgar war involved. 

That fair battalion stretched along, 
Confronted there the brave and strong, 

And dread defiance hurled ; 
Broad aprons red, and blue, and white. 
And 'kerchiefs glowing in the light. 

Were strangely waved and whirled. 



26o BRUIN, THE LAST KING OF WACHUSETT 

Then came a cry, so loud and shrill 
It startled every sleeping hill ; 

A war-cry brave men fear. 
Again, again it echoed far, 
It miofht have reached some distant star. 

Ah, think of standing near ! 

The fugitive was brave. He oft 
Had seen the bale fire leap aloft 

When great pines, crackling, burned ; 
Had heard King Philip's warriors shout 
For victory, or direful rout. 

This was too much. He turned. 

Brave Major Reeze, well armed, concealed. 
Then fired on him in open field 

A fatal, coward shot. 
And then the others came, and fought. 
And deeds of awful valor wrought ; 

The dead corse knew it not. 

Then mourn Wachusett's heroes slain. 
The lofty peak and woods remain, 

But silent are the braves. 
King Philip long ago was dead, 
King Bruin drops his weary head, 

And no man decks their graves. 



(Bt?ening ^ong of i^t (RoBin* 

When into twiliglit fades the day, 
The robin from his hidden bower 

Enchants us with his evening- lay, 
Unequalled for its joy and power. 

Art thou a bird, or from the throng 
Of spirits blest, sent down to show 

By bursts of joyful, matchless song, 
The bliss we yet but dimly know ? 

In that transcendent melody 
Are raptures more than mortals feel, 

Sweet words from realms we cannot see. 
That faintly speak, but more conceal. 

If once a friend, delay thy flight ; 

To sing that mystic song, return. 
Thy music thrills me with delight. 

Its inner sense I long to learn, 

O bird beloved so many years ! 

On thy glad song I seem to rise 
Above the earth, above the spheres. 

At home at last beyond the skies. 



Silently leave me to dream in my chair, 
Joy is not meet for my spirit to-night, 

Gladness and merriment would I not share. 
Visions of other days claim now their right. 

Friends of to-day have dopped out of my mind. 
Future things can I not know till they come, 

Memory wake in me bitter or kind ! 

I would not bid one sad voice to be dumb. 

Fixed is the story of many long years, — 
Much to repent of, I cannot conceal, — 

Long hours of bitterness, sad hours of tears. 
Will not the wounds of the penitent heal ? 

There, too, were pleasures, sweet, scattered along. 
Blessings unnumbered, too faultless to last. 

Mingling with friends, a continual song ; — 
Joyful is life when beheld in the past. 



THANKSGIVING DAY, 1886 263 

All down the years are the faces I knew, 
Dear friends and kindred, so early to die, 

Beautiful, noble, unselfish, and true, — 
Can I not see them ascending the sky ? 

Five of the six, in my home when a boy, 
Sleep all so soundly beneath the green sod, 

Changes of time will our bodies destroy, — 
Spirits, I know, will go upward to God. 

Sleep, softly sleep, I will follow one day. 
Trustfully, here in my place, I will stand. 

Sadly I witness the passing away, 
Lonely, I dream of the shadowy land. 



With weary steps and downcast eye, 
There walks a man unnoticed by, — 

A cast-off man of God. 
Does rumor say he has done wrong, 
And, therefore, many winters long 

This dreary road has trod ? 

No — nothing wrong — but, while he could, 
Had labored hard for others' good. 

Had preached, and taught, and prayed 
Among the high, among the low, — 
Wherever wanted he would go, 

And some his call obeyed. 

Disabled by a winter's blast. 
His holy work is done, at last. 

And dreary waiting came. 
However sharp the sting might be, 
The world no more his use could see. 

And men forgot his name. 



A NEGLECTED SERVANT 265 

With weary step and downcast eye, 
Again, again, he passes by, — 

But he is growing old. 
Then men, by God's free gifts made proud, 
Forgot his servant in the crowd, — 

He had no stores of gold. 

A gainless life at last he leads. 
With nothing saved but holy deeds, 

" Is any one to blame ? " 
Says Dives, " give me for the place 
A man of vigor not of grace," 

And no man says, for shame ! 

In the neglect of many years, 
He's not so lone as he appears ; — 

The unseen come and sing. 
The spirits, moving to and fro. 
Drop words of hope as on they go, 

Recording everything. 

With weary step and downcast eye 

The man of God no more goes by, 

Nor feels the loving rod. 

The task assigned at last is done ; 

And he has gone beyond the sun, 

Up near the throne of God. 
17 



Little Mabel, wonder-eyed, 
Greeting with a winning smile, 

Like a spirit glorified, 
Only resting here a while. 

Dancing with the grace untaught 
Of a whirling autumn leaf. 

Singing songs she might have caught. 
From a wild bird's carol brief. 

Trustful to the hands that rear, 
Love for love in full returned, 

Nature child, unspoiled, sincere, 
Full of art she has not learned. 

Feeling more than you can say 

In your overflow of glee, 
Queen of every changing day. 

Little one, contented be ! 

Haste not to be old and wise. 
Ply thy little childish arts, 
♦ Honest face and beaming eyes, 
Dull the pain of weary hearts. 



On the stony roadside, helpless, 
Under summer's burning sky, 

Lay a lifelong faithful servant, 
Useless now, and left to die. 

Here he sank beneath his burden. 
Whips no more could make him rise. 

Cruel hands, profane and greedy, 
Could no longer tyrannize. 

Strange that man should feel no pity 
For his uncomplaining slave ! — 

Many masters had been cruel, 
No kind friend appeared to save. 

While in dying pains he lingered. 
If he had the powers of thought. 

Changing visions might have glimmered, 
Slowly fading into naught. 



268 THE DYING HORSE 

Once, well cared for, kindly treated, 
Labor hardly more than play, 

Gentle hands bestowed caresses. 
Proud, he longed to dash away. 

With the friends who seemed to love him, 
Cheered by childhood's merry cry, 

Sport it was, unurged and tireless, 
Over hill and dale to fly. 

Then came dreary years of changes ; 

Some faint marks of age appear ; — 
By his former friends discarded 

Oft he calls — they do not hear. 

Changing masters, sinking downwards 

On the road of toil and pain. 
Days are longer, labor harder, 

Food and rest oft craved in vain. 

When from weakness he would linger. 
Came the fiendish cruel whip, 

Causing one last painful effort, 
Flesh to tingle, sweat to drip. 



THE DYING HORSE 269 

In a cart, and overloaded, 

Starved, and lame, and harness-sore, 
Kicked and scourged by heartless drivers, 

Here he sank to rise no more. 

Poor, dumb, robbed and noble servant, 

Has Our Father ceased to reign ? 
Was thy noble form created, 

As in jest, for want and pain ? 

Take, O Earth, this fallen victim. 

Hard has been his cruel fate. 
Give him rest from all his tortures, 

Doomed long weary years to wait ! 

You who owned him in his beauty. 
Faithful, cherished, useful friend. 

Think of all the woes he suffered. 
Growing fiercer to the end. 



't^i ^ea. 



A merciless mother was ever the sea, 

Her children come leaping from valley and hill, 
But never again will those streamlets be free, 

She drinks, but rolls onward unsatisfied still. 

She sports with the shore gayly tossing her foam. 
Her mood is declared by her threatening roar, 

She leaves the torn sea-flowers just wrenched from 
their home 
To wither and blacken, defiling the shore. 

In hours of her madness, when restless and wild, 
Her cataract billows revengefully rave. 

Engulfing alike the frail beautiful child. 

And man in his strength, who would perish to 
save. 

If all the bright spirits since life here began. 
And treasures wrought out after agfes of care, 

Were on the hard rocks when she thitherward ran. 
She never would hesitate, pity, nor spare. 



THE SEA 271 

There is nothing so treacherous under the sun, 
Her clear, glassy face in a moment may change ; 

Tornadoes abroad through her empire may run, 
And waltz to a music terrific and strange ; 

But down in her sunless and horrible maw 
Where monsters, disgusting and ravenous, swim, 

The whirlpools are tearing the fragments like 
straw. 
Of ships and of skeletons, eyeless and grim. 

There costly productions of years passed away 
Confused and in fragments are floating along. 

And grinding themselves into orderless clay, 
A harvest of death in a prison house strong. 

O restless, pitiless, heartless, and dread ! 

Though deaf to our words ever proud on thy 
wave. 
Though continents shake by the weight of thy 
tread. 
Thy glory will end as a wandering grave ! 

As Earth shall continue its wearing away. 
The rains ever washing the hillsides will run, 

And bear to thy banquet the ceaseless decay, 
Too foul to remain in the light of the sun. 



272 THE SEA 

When conquest is perfect, and life has no place 
On this dead world of rocks, with its garment of 
cloud. 
How long- will it wander through measureless 
space. 
Thy roaring its dirge, and thy breakers its 
shroud ! 



(m^ ^mtat< 



Come trustfully forth from thy slumber of years, 
Thou long hast been silent, untuned are thy 
strings, 
And dust on thy sounding-board friendless appears. 
The spirit that dwells in thee moves not its 
wings. 

A treasure in youth — though I boasted no skill, 
I loved the rare cords and the deep solemn tones 

That sent through my worshiping spirit a thrill ; — 
I hear them still ringing through years that have 
flown. 

Come, rest — I will trouble thy silence no more, 
The skill of my fingers is gone with the past. 

The hopes of my musical fancies are o'er. 
Go rest in thy corner, my friend, to the last. 

But sweet are the memories clinging to thee, 
My confident, true, in my sorrowing years. 

When softly sweet words thou didst whisper to me 
Inviting a hope with my gathering fears. 



274 ^^ GUITAR 

When time had moved forward, surroundings were 
changed, 
Again, thou wert with me, long cherished, my 
own, 
I met thee in secret, the world seemed estranged, 
But loved thy soft murmurs communing alone. 

Oh, sad were those years then, almost to despair, 
When hope had gone down, and the plans of my 
youth 

Were vanishing mist on the colorless air, 
And ever was brooding a terrible truth. 

I feared this fair world then so dear to my eyes 
Might hopelessly fade with my vanishing sight. — 

No faces, no flowers — no earth and no skies ! — 
Ah, what is life worth ever shrouded in night ! 

Sometimes were awakened by fingers unskilled 
Soft music as sweet as an angel might sing, 

And borne on its waves, then my spirit was filled 
With rapture new born of a trembling string. 

Now rest there, beloved old friend, in thy place ; 

I think of the years thou didst help me to live, 
And sweetly, yet sadly, come dreams of thy grace, — 

Thy strings though untouched ever music will 
give. 



Friends of your native land 
Rouse from your slumbers, 

Foes you thought scattered long 
Boast of their numbers. 

Under a loyal mask 

Old fires are glowing ; — 

Crushed by an iron heel, 
Hot tears are flowing. 

Down-trodden son of slaves 
Wait for your shouting ; 

Hear the sharp rifle ball — 
Judge for the doubting ! 

Friends of our goodly land. 

List to the prancing ! 
Hear the clear bugle note ; — 

Foes are advancing. 

Hark ! from the battlefields, 

Countless in number, 
Dotted with nameless graves 

Where soldiers slumber. 



276 CAMPAIGN SONG 

Where, in neglected fields, 

Rest without cover 
Victims of prison pens, — 

Father and lover. 

Where, in the horrid swamps, 
Under waves sleeping ; 

With not one message sent 
Home to the weeping ; 

Comes forth a voice to us, 
Anxious and sighing. 

Loud as the cannon's roar, 
Faint like the dying : 

Rouse up, ye living men ! 

Shout the old war-cry ! 
Save what our brave have bought 

Did they in vain die ! 



IXfaitin^. 



In an arm chair, softly cushioned, 

Sat an old man in a dream, 
Near him plays his little grandchild, 

While the sunset glories gleam. 

Marks of changing joy and sorrow- 
Showed upon his wrinkled face. 

For he saw again the vision 
Of his youthful power and grace. 

Pictures of his far-off childhood. 
Dimmed, but often passing sweet. 

Kiss of long-departed mother, 
Whom he soon in heaven may meet. 

What a world of joyful visions 
Do we lose when we forget 

Most of what occurred in childhood, 
And our ever unpaid debt. 

Came his home, his wife, and children. 
Many years of joy and pride. 

And his great unending sorrow 
When his first-born idol died. 



278 



WAITING 

Work was done, and quite successful ; 

Firm his step and strong his arm, 
Proud he walked among his fellows, 

And in life was still a charm. 

Rolling years at last brought changes ; 

Few now kept the yearly feast, 
And his slow and weary footstep 

Showed preeminence had ceased. 

Now he loved his youthful namesake ; 

Young and old at last draw near, 
But his soul was prone to wander 

With the friends no longer here. 

Welcome came his life companion. 
As she was those long-gone years, 

And he seemed not to remember 
Bitter hours and scalding tears. 

Painful seemed the day of parting ; 

Few who knew him now were found 
One by one the brave and lovely 

Slept beneath the grassy mound. 



WAITING 279 

Now sojourning here a stranger, 
All the world were in his love, 

Waiting for the welcome summons 
And the gathering above, 

" Little beauty, come and see me, 

For my race is nearly done. 
And before the morning breaketh 

I may be beyond the sun." 



Z^anh^itfin^, (Tlot>em6er, 1888» 

Is it mist that hangs before me, 
Dulling all my powers of seeing ? 

Am I blind to good that might be ? 
Whither is my spirit fleeing ? 

Is there in the future glowing 

Nothing more for hope to cherish ? 

In the sable river flowing, 
Are my loved ones all to perish ? 

On this day of happy greetings, 
With a spirit sad and lonely, 

I have left a friendly meeting 
For a feast with spirits only. 

Like a stranger, here I wander 
In these unknown well-known places. 

On the absent let me ponder. 
And recall the vanished faces. 

I shall conquer with the morning, — 
But to-night I walk in sadness ; 

Darkly hangs the garb of sorrow ; 
By the grave we seek not gladness. 



j[n QYlemortam^ 



ATHERTON COOPER CHAMBERS. 
One day to our world came a fair little child, 

The pride of his parents, the joy of his friends ; 
He seemed a young angel from heaven beguiled, 

Too frail for the conflicts mortality sends ; 
His beautiful helplessness made him a king. 

And deep in his wondering, fathomless eye. 
When first he beheld the bright glory of spring, 

Were gleams of a spirit that never could die. 

Then out from a cloud came a voice of command, 

Addressed to an angel who loved to obey : 
Go down to that far-off, that sin-blighted land, 

And guide a sweet spirit unfettered to-day ; 
His place has been waiting for thousands of years, 

Bring hither my treasure, I heard when he cried ; 
His life will be short in that valley of tears, 

His work shall be done where the sinless abide. 



282 IN MEMORIAM 

Then swift as a sunbeam he hastened to bless, 

And noiselessly entered the chamber of death, 
Unseen, yet beholding each sign of distress. 

The useless devotion, the shortening breath. 
He heard the sweet music of unspoken prayer. 

That silently floated like incense above ; 
And, full of compassion for sufferers there. 

He prayed to his Lord to reward themwith love. 

To the dear little sufferer he breathed not a word ; 

He knew that his life might be sorrow and tears, 
Surrounded by snares, with hope lost or deferred, 

Deceived or degraded, through slow-moving 
years. 
In pity for those who must tarry below, 

He longed the bright story of heaven to tell, 
While tears of pure love and of sympathy flow. 

Thrice blessed are they on whose forehead they 
fell. 

When sleep seemed to rest on the sufferer's face, 
The angel received him with tenderest love ; 

And, wrapped in a mantle of measureless grace, 
Arose with his treasure to mansions above. 



IN MEMORIAM 283 

Our eyes are too feeble to follow their flight, 
Between hangs a curtain of glittering skies : 

How blessed the thrills of his sinless delight ! 
What glories astonish his wondering eyes ! 

Our weak human hearts are expected to mourn, 

But faith should rejoice in a victory won. 
Our anguish, though great, should be trustfully 
borne. 
For all is well known to the pitying Son. 
God took him — perhaps, He has loved him the 
best — 
To save from the evils that brood over all. 
There, glorified now, and unspeakably blest, 

He waits, and the hearts of his friends hear his 
call. 



(Ba^ ;^eaf^er0* 



One spring, in the meadow, appeared a bright pair, 
Who built them a nest, working early and well ; 

Their home, 'mid the green leaves, was guarded 
with care, 
And four tiny birdlings came hither to dwell. 

There helpless they lie, with their feathers half 
grown, 

Unable to stand, and with wild, staring eyes ; 
Shut up in their tree-world, all others unknown, 

How feeble they were, what a look of surprise ! 

The mother bird darts on her bright colored wings, 
Seems dancing on sunbeams, is never at rest ; 

A model of beauty, she constantly sings, 
And loves the small heads swinging high in her 
nest. 

A hunter boy lurked in the pasture unknown — 
The loving birds come to their treasure no more ; 

The four little strangers now hungry and lone. 
With wide-open mouths for their supper implore. 



GA V FEA THERS 285 

O mother bird, hasten again to thy bower ; 

Thy little ones tremble with fright and with cold, 
Still waiting, and fasting, long hour after hour ; 

Oh, come, with your wings the frail bodies en- 
fold. 

There, weary of waiting, thy presence they crave. 
And, clinging together, despairing lie ; 

Thy warm and soft feathers are needed to save ; 
O mother, come home, or thy birdlings will die ! 

A wing has been placed in a gay lady's head. 

But fairy-like beauties were dragged from the 
sky; 

And four little birdlings lie famished and dead. 
The mother bird heard not their perishing cry. 



Before an open furnace door — 
A hundred letters in my hand, 

That I would keep for evermore, 
Reluctant to destroy — I stand. 

When each one with its magic came 
It gave my soul a loving thrill. 

And after years remains the same, 
I feel the joyful music still. 

If wisely done — it seems a crime ; — 
Too sacred were those pages rare. 

To risk the chance of coming time, 

Though I might guard with jealous care. 

In doubt and fear — I would rebel — 
I must, — I make the fatal cast ! 

The fire has done the work full well ; 
They blaze and flash — are dust at last. 



LETTERS DESTROYED 287 

'Twas painful more than words can tell, 
And much of life is gone to me ; 

I seem to hear a solemn knell 
For what again I may not see. 

But they are safe, and on the wings 

Of holy fire they fly above ; 
No man shall know what sacred things 

Were uttered to the ears of love. 



t^t €^ime0 of QtorfofS. 

Out from yonder belfry welling 

Comes the ever-welcome chime, 
With a gentle prelude, telling 
Of the ceaseless flight of time, 
Kindly telling how our days are dying, 
How our years with restless speed are flying. 

Over meadows, over mountains, 

Where the sounds of toil are heard, 
Past the groves with hidden fountains. 
Cool retreat for beast and bird ; 
To the far-oft' lonely hamlet reaching, 
Hourly comes the well-known solemn teaching. 

Men who delve till shadows darken 

Feel the hours are sooner gone, 
Happy children stop and hearken. 
Sporting on the summer lawn ; 
When the weary night goes slowly creeping. 
Pleasant sounds the music to the weeping. 



THE CHIMES OF NORFOLK 289 

Just as sweetly rolls the measure 

Where the weary are at rest, 
Where the Reaper hides his treasure, 
And the pure in heart are blest, 
Where the solemn yew-tree and the willow 
Stretch their arms above the dreamless pillow. 

When shall come the hour of dying — 

By some arrow shot at noon ; 
On a bed of anguish lying ; 
Or when age shall seek the boon ; 
May my sinking spirit catch the ringing 
Notes that ransomed souls in heaven are singing. 



^):txade from QYlr* ^a^for'e 

MEN DON, New York, my childhood's home ! 
my heart beats a little quicker at the men- 
tion of the name, and dim, distorted pic- 
tures pass before my mind's eye as of some other 
world I once visited. Some are not now understood, 
but passing sweet, yet I would not be a child again; 
it is a delight to look back, but it would not be 
to go back. The soul's life is onward, upward, 
wiser, greater, holier, and happier. 

Your letter about the beauties and fascinations 
of spring carried me away to a world in which I 
was a boy. It was spring, too, and in the spring- 
time of life. My parents came from Enfield, near 
Hartford, but in Mendon life first dawned upon 
me. I sat alone and much of it came back to me — 
it was fragmentary — bits of days and hours 
strangely combined or disjointed, a sweet little 
dream of childish joy, or wonder, came over me. 
I will tell you a few of my visions and then leave 
them to fade out forever ; no, not forever, for I 
believe the mind will retain its store of facts and 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



291 



feeling to all eternity. We may forget for awhile, 
but they are not lost. My old home for my first 
years was there. I saw the green grass and the row 
of maples in front, — my father set them out. 
Lilacs were before the windows looking very 
friendly; there was a garden at the end of the 
house ; many flowers were there. My mother loved 
to cultivate them, and when she was old flower 
pots were in her windows. Peach trees, before they 
began to suffer from the many pests of to-day, 
though great unshapely trees, produced large beau- 
tiful red and yellow fruit. I see no more such. 
Then there were plums, cherries, etc., etc. In 
another part of the garden, I went to dig arti- 
chokes, a great treat in my boyish days. I can see 
the place where they grew, but they will grow no 
more, for the garden with its zigzag fence is made 
into a field, and the house is gfone. 

My father's great barn was on the other side 
of the road. You can never know what a delipfht 
there is to a boy to be in a great barn in haying 
time, breathing the sweet odors of new hay and 
seeing the great loads drive in almost as large 
as the barn itself. I remember a little elevation 
where something had been done to attract me there 
at the sunset hour, and I had the first consciousness 
of the great world we live upon stretching far 
away on every side, and the great mysterious dome 



292 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

under which we live. I had often looked but 
never felt before ; it was a new field for my 
thoughts. 

There was a brook running through my father's 
farm, of which came many pleasant memories. 
Sometimes its course was in the wild woods, wind- 
ing around in the shade, rustling over its stony 
bed, consisting of pebbles of many colors. It was a 
boyish delight to wade in it and feel its waters 
rushing by. At some sudden turns in its course it 
became narrow, and consequently deeper. I was 
delighted to look over the bank into its clear waters 
and watch the scaly inhabitants waving their grace- 
ful fins. They were happy as I, but it was of a lower 
grade of delight. Some squirrels I could see glid- 
ing along upon the branches with a merry jump. 
In the margin of the woods were flocks of gay 
singers, busy with their domestic duties, pouring- 
out their marvelous songs, so I thought them. In 
those days a bird was to me a thing of beauty. 
How I envied their long, fearless flights, thinking 
they might be messengers from an unknown world. 

These thoughts and much more ran through my 
mind in a few minutes, and I thank you for so 
pleasant a visit back into the by-gone. But 
enough ; you are tired, you cannot see what I saw, 
nor hear the words that sounded in my ears, but 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



293 



it was all real to me, a world of delights. Did you 
ever think in the other world when memory shall 
be relieved of its fetters, what a delight we shall 
have always at our call ? The home of my child- 
hood is destroyed, and the ploughshare has passed 
over the garden, but memory will hold on to its 
treasures, for it is spiritual ; though the eye may be 
sightless, for it is mortal. 

Next Tuesday, probably, with the members of 
the Connecticut Historical Society, I shall go 
through Boston on our way to Plymouth. There 
will be no time to delay in Boston, but I hope 
to be there soon. Plymouth is a holy land to New 
England. There began the grandest government 
the world has ever known. 

So you have a garden. That recalls pleasant and 
precious memories. When I was a youth at my 
home in Enfield, I used to work in the garden 
partly for the healthful exercise it gave me, but 
more for the pleasure in it. 1 used to cultivate 
long rows of flowers, not all rare, but old-fashioned 
flowers, beautiful to me then, pulling up the weeds, 
coaxing them to grow more vigorously, then the 
buds were watched and as soon as a flower began 
to peep through the green calyx my botany came 
to my aid ; the very dust around them was dear to 
me in that old garden spot, and the flowers in 
memory seem almost angels of light calling forth a 



294 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



kind of worship, for they are God's children and 
they stand looking up to the sun in the attitude of 
worship or adoration. I wonder what flowers will 
bloom in the garden of Paradise ? My mother was 
a great lover of flowers and had many rare speci- 
mens ; she was fond and proud of showing them to 
her neighbors. I see her now as she presented some 
to her friends full of delight. Perhaps she has a 
flower garden in some far away — with the family 
all there save one. I shall meet them again (I look 
back on five), when and where, I cannot tell. 

I received the printed sermon on the Ministry of 
Angels and have read it twice with increasing 
interest. I have never had any pet theories on the 
subject, have believed in them because the Bible 
speaks of them as divine messengers ; you know 
the word angel comes from a Greek word meaning 
"sent" or "messenger." It is pleasant to think of 
guardian angels following us through life and help- 
ino- us in unknown danger and difficulties. Prob- 
ably any of us might remember times when we 
seemed to have received help and made wonderful 
escapes. I remember when a boy with other com- 
panions I had been roaming about as boys love 
to do. I attempted to climb the bank of the 
Connecticut river at a place where it was high and 
precipitous. When almost up, standing on a nar- 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 295 

row shelf of rock and holding on to a root it broke, 
and for a moment I seemed falling- backward, my 
head whirled, and had I fallen, it would doubtless 
have caused death. But I did not fall, I never 
could see why. I seemed to be held by nothing, 
yet I was held ; and now, after forty years, cannot 
think of it without a chill passing over me. I 
wonder that I am alive. Was it a guardian angel 
that helped me ? I do not know. Perhaps it is 
a kindness in our great Father that we do not know 
the unseen dangers around us. We should become 
cowards. We ought to thank God every day that 
we are still alive, yes, and also that if we are in 
trouble a heavenly messenger may be hovering 
over us ready to aid if it should be the will of God. 
We cannot comprehend God, but we can form some 
probably truthful opinions of His angels, for they, 
like us, are created beings. 

All efforts to describe Heaven to mortals have 
been and will continue to be failures. How can any 
one describe what " eye hath not seen nor ear 
heard " ? I believe when we shall awake in Heaven 
it will seem as strange to us as the world would be 
to one born blind when his sight was given to him. 
I once read " Dick's Future State " — a good man — 
in which he endeavors to show how it migJit be, 
and all his opinions seemed probable. The impres- 



296 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

sion on my mind, not pleasant, was, that Heaven 
was too much like earth. I choose to leave it a 
mystery, being sure it will be such a place or state 
as a being infinitely wise, good, and powerful would 
prepare for those he loved, — that is enough for me. 
But there was a rather concealed underlying 
thought that all would arrive there in their time — 
perhaps this is really the main object of the book. 
You know there is a deep movement in the relig- 
ious mind to-day to banish the idea of eternal pun- 
ishment from Christian belief, not for want of evi- 
dence in the Bible, but because the human heart 
hates the thought. With the solution of this ques- 
tion we have nothing to do, but we have ;i plain 
duty to believe in Christ who saves from this eter- 
nal death, and to induce others to believe. 

One of the pleasant things this winter is a Ger- 
man conversation club, consisting of twenty-five 
persons, Americans, and one German lady as 
teacher. All can speak German ; several have 
spent considerable time in the Fatherland. The 
first two hours no one is allowed to speak English 
— the time is spent in general conversation. Ger- 
man — conversational — like money in one's pocket, 
slips away, and unless replenished is soon out of 
reach, and it is astonishing how an exercise like 
this brings it back again even without much study. 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 297 

If present yoii would think yourself in the land of 
the Teutons. 

The Center Church has purchased a new organ 
costing $20,000, and a concert was given to show its 
good qualities ; it was very delightful ; wish you 
could have been there. The one in our church has 
been greatly improved. During the week the Inter- 
Seminary Alissionary Alliance was held here. 
" Theologs " from all denominations and all parts 
of the country were present. They discussed the 
nature and wants of the missionary field. The 
public were treated to addresses, etc., from clergy- 
men of note. Prof. Townsend of Boston was here 
on Sunday, but as it was my day at the State 
prison, I did not hear him. I have a class of eigh- 
teen hard-looking men. 

I do not know '' all " about Swedenborg, but have 
heard and read something. There is no doubt as 
to his being a most extraordinary man. His attain- 
ments in science and general knowledge were a long 
way beyond his contemporaries, but his books of 
that description are all out of date now. The 
world of science left him behind years ago, and he 
is remembered now for his religious views. When 
a man claims to have communication with the spirit 
world I begin to think he is not of sound mind. I 
19 



298 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



once read one of his accounts, and, though only a 
youth, thought it ridiculous. He claims to tell us 
about the other world in detail, but who of all the 
sacred writers has done such a thing ! Christ told 
us how to get to heaven, but not what it was. In 
view of the silence of those inspired men who 
talked with God, his very human description seems 
to me worthy of ridicule. I do not think he meant 
to deceive, but was under the influence of a strange 
delusion. We do not yet know much about the mys- 
terious phenomenon of the soul, of spirits, of future 
life, of death, etc. The Bible was given us for a 
guide ; all we need to know is given us in a way in 
which we need not stumble ; our only safety is in 
holding on to the plain meaning of the sacred writ- 
ings and let all false prophets perish with their day. 
A fact that should cause every one to reject 
Swedenborg is that he regards only a part of the 
Bible as the Word of God — the rest is useful, but 
not binding. In the New Testament he rejects in 
this way all except the four Gospels and Revela- 
tion. I do not think Swedenborg a representative 
man, but if he is — of whom or of what ? The 
number of the New Jerusalem Church is very 
small, and will continue to be so, but there are al- 
ways some people — good, perhaps — whose minds, 
being a little warped, hanker for strange things, 
believe upon no evidence, and reject the plainest 
truths. 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 299 

The star Sirius, the most conspicuous star in the 
south, now seems to be looking into my window 
with a kind and amiable eye. It is a great distance 
away, but astronomers say it is the nearest star in 
the firmament, and would only require about four- 
teen years for a ray of light to reach us. Perhaps 
when our earthly fetters have fallen off we shall be 
able to fly away and visit somewhere in the now 
unknown space, our Father's home; yes, but that will 
not be all. 

For I shall be as pure as lit^ht, 
Claiming in many worlds a right ; 
My Father's realm and seat. 

I am reading now a very old heroic poem of Fin- 
land, the " Kalevala." I have had it in mind for 
years, but it has just been published in this coun- 
try. It is from this that Longfellow is supposed 
to have received the spirit and scheme of " Hiawa- 
tha," but not the story. It is a strange, old poem, 
said to be three thousand years old. Perhaps this 
is doubtful, but it is very ancient. It interests me 
much, not for the information it gives, but for the 
echoes that come from old long-ago. It seems to 
have no connection with the world of to-day. I am 
not sure you would be interested — not unless you 
understand its mythologies. 



300 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



Saturday there was a great Luther festival held 
in our oldest church, at which there was some fine 
old Luther music well performed, but much faster 
than in Germany, and with that a grand address by 

Dr. H , professor in the Theological Seminary 

here. On Sunday, in nearly every Protestant 
church, the morning sermon was on that subject, 
and in the evening there was a union service in the 
Park Church with fine music and addresses. I 
think Luther's life is the most memorable one in all 
the annals of human history ; there never was a 
more honest man, civilian or soldier, and probably 
the civilization of Europe to-day hangs upon his 
great work. 

At home I observe the Sabbath very strictly. I 
like to do it. Out of church and Sunday-school the 
time is mostly spent in reading or studying some- 
thing of a religious character — never any secular 
books or papers. There is a profound pleasure in 
the holiness of the Sabbath day. It is beyond and 
above me, but I seem to long after it, and can say, 
in truth, it is the happiest day of the week. May 
God keep me never to lose any of my veneration 
for the holy day. But the keeping of a day is in 
the spirit we cherish. 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLORS LETTERS 



301 



Probably you have found me to be a kind of en- 
thusiast in nature. When a boy, before I knew 
what it really meant, it seemed natural for me to 
think of the vegetable world as going to sleep in 
autumn, as we for a night. What a sweet, dream- 
less slumber they must have had all the snowy 
months ; everything just as it should be — not like 
us unfortunates — in due time awaking in spotless 
beauty, in perfect bliss ! How the kind sun seems 
to smile upon them, giving hour after hour its 
transforming kisses, which they return with looks 
of adoration, and soon will hang out on every 
yielding spray a green banner to wave in joy and 
gratitude ! Even now the magnolias and the apple 
trees are filling the air with new delight. 

How I would like to be out in the country now — 
not only to say good morning to the trees and 
flowers that are waking up out of sleep, but also to 
welcome the birds that make their appearance day 
by day, hopping around merrily. My favorite, the 
oriole, has not yet appeared. I may not see him here 
in the city where I live, but no bird is more wel- 
come. He has on a bright dress, and his note, 
though not equal to some, has a great charm to me. 
It is a strange, wild note — sad, withal — which is 
to be expected, for he comes alone, and is appa- 
rently waiting for somebody. Somebody comes at 
last, and his song loses its mournful character. 



302 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

I am reading " Faust" with a German friend ; it, 
with Dante's " Commedia," to me, towers high 
above all products of human imagination. Neither 
is good in every respect, but both are the works of 
great geniuses. I would not recommend " Faust " 
to any one unless they felt their religious opinions 
grounded upon a solid rock, beyond a peradventure, 
in regard to which no doubt ever comes. It may 
not harm, but cannot increase the faith of anyone. 
You may ask why any should read it. No one 
should unless he feels a strong desire to do so. At 
the first reading it seems to some the most profane 
conception in all literature, without using a single 
word of ordinary profanity. You know there is a 
doubt among commentators what " Faust " meant. 
vSome think it is the struggle of the good and bad 
principles in the human soul. However it may be, 
it is very subtle in its detail, and gives profound in- 
sight into human nature in masterly sentences of 
great beauty ; and in that lies the fascination for 
me. There is no true, good talk in it, nor plati- 
tudes ; an ignorant man should not venture upon 
it. I do not think it can be translated. There are 
some who value it as a " religious exponent." I do 
not, but as offering an opportunity for looking into 
the depths of our mysterious hearts and souls. I 
am also reading a great " System of Theology." 
You might presume it was to counteract the other, 
but for the fact that it was begun before " Faust." 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 303 

This has been a delightful day — a sky without a 
cloud — blue, so blue and transparent we seem to 
see far into its depths. If it were only a little 
clearer, what wonders might we see ! The world 
to me is full of beauty. My taste leads me where 
I can commune with nature — the green children 
of the forest and plain ; a walk by the sea, with its 
wild, rocky, yet beautiful, shores, uniting with the 
waves in a low, sweet anthem of praise. I think 
the deep emotions of the soul, though not expressed 
in articulate sounds, are in harmony, and join in 
that great anthem, and feel unspeakable delight. 
When our emotions are deepest our tongues seem 
to fail ; their silence speaks louder than words. I 
believe that deep in our hearts lie our choicest 
treasures, and that is well, for we can carry them 
with us to the end — yes, beyond the end. 

How strong a problem is this human life of ours ! 
Endowed with the elements of boundless, but fet- 
tered, capacities and infinite longings, never gain- 
ing an " answer to life's questions," because we fail 
to see " the Hands that do offer help." Most seem 
to have lived in vain — wanderers. I have some- 
times thought that this vague longing for some- 
thing better is the homesickness of the soul for its 
original home in Paradise, from which it has wan- 
dered, a prodigal, for six thousand years. The 



304 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

vision lias vanished, but a taste for the unknown 
and lost good remains. " Sounds from home played 
upon a harp that finds faint echo in our souls, even 
after two hundred generations." We shall never 
be satisfied till we return to our Father's house. I 
am " brushing up" my botany now for a short time, 
occasionally spending the whole day in the woods 
and fields alone. It is pleasant, but it might be 
pleasanter ; and if you were here, 1 should try to 
induce you to go with me. The frost will soon end 
this pleasure, and take away the life of my dear 
little children of nature. I am about to commence 
the " Princess of Thule." I suppose Whittier's 
prayer of Plato was really that of Socrates, but 
given by Plato in Phaedrus, beginning, " O beloved 
Pan, and all ye other gods of this place, grant me 
to become beautiful in the inner man," etc. It is, 
indeed, beautiful ! There is no Christianity in it — 
it does not provide for lost sinners ; but where that 
prayer could be answered would be heaven, for 
where everything is perfectly beautiful within, and 
at peace with all without, there could be no sin, for 
sin is the ugliest of deformities. It is not claimed 
that beauty is holiness, nor that ugliness (that is 
the opposite of beauty) is sin ; but all holiness is 
beautiful, and all sin is ugly and deformed. 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 305 

We have had a very interesting series of Sabbath- 
school lessons, embracing a great drama — the 
grandest by far that the world has ever seen, or 
that ever will be played on the stage in all the ages 
of eternity — so great that the world fails to see it. 
How many persons, speaking of Christ, realize that 
He was the maker of the world, and holds it in the 
hollow of His hand ? But it was so ; the dying 
Christ on the cross was the eternal Son of God. 

The good a teacher may do is not to be estimated 
in this world. The possible results are far greater 
with the younger ones, for there will be improve- 
ment, and the effect will be more lasting. A little 
truth lodged in a child's mind may last forever. It 
is said a person fixed in childhood seldom changes 
his religion, and it will be all the stronger if it 
was only taught as a fact, without reason or expla- 
nation. 

June 23, 1 88 1. — I went to Cleveland as a dele- 
gate to the international convention of the Ameri- 
can Y. M. C. A. The convention and its doings 
have been very interesting. It is a great thing to 
see five hundred and fifty persons, most of them 
young or youngish men, from every part of the 
United States and Canada, gathered and moved by 
one great impulse, and that a noble one — the work 
of saving souls. Perhaps all engaged are not very 



3o6 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

learned or wise, or free from mistakes, but all had 
one common, intense desire. Some had a little 
western roughness, and those from the South had 
none of the coldness and proud reserve of our dear 
Puritan home. It was amusing to see how strangers, 
meeting on the streets, would stop, introduce each 
other, shake hands with a stinging grip, and talk 
away as though they had been life-long neighbors. 

The meetings were devoted to devotional exer- 
cises, business, and discussions, at which interesting 
papers were presented. I did not realize the great- 
ness of the movement at first, but now it seems like 
a great wave, rolling over the country, and, per- 
haps, the world — spontaneous, sinking down into 
the heart of our social and religious life. The en- 
thusiasm of the men engaged is astonishing. 

The church is and will continue to be the in- 
strumentality through which God establishes His 
kingdom on earth ; the Y. M. C. A. is not an op- 
ponent or rival ; it should be regarded as a ser- 
vant. The church ought to do in its own field all 
the Y. M. C. A. is doing, but it does not ; and a 
spontaneous movement, like an avalanche, loosened 
by the wants of the times, comes rushing down into 
the gap. The church cannot stop it, nor resist it ; 
but it can, and should, yoke it into service. In 
many instances it does. All should aid and cherish, 
but where this is not the case, some men will wake 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



307 



up with the sound of rushing torrents in their ears, 
and will be greatly astonished to find they have 
been left behind, stranded and dry. 

Our Connecticut Historical Society had an excur- 
sion to Deerfield, Mass. — an old, historic place. 
The ride through the young, fresh country was 
very pleasant to Springfield ; then to South Deer- 
field. There we took carriages, and rode to Bloody 
Brook, where we rested a short time ; then over 
hills and valleys to Old Deerfield, and to our hotel. 
I at once left the company to find the home in 
which my father was born and lived as a boy. The 
Taylor family occupied it more than a hundred 
years ago. The front part of the structure, with 
its strange wall paper, was there. The grand elms 
spread their arms over the street. I had heard of 
them often. A wild whirlwind of thoughts rushed 
through my mind, as I stood and looked up into 
the confused world of branches. What had they 
seen ? But they would not speak ; only a soft, low 
murmur was heard. I felt its solemnity, but could 
not interpret it. Walked along past my grand- 
father's church, which, thanks to the degenerate 
times, has become Unitarian. He was orthodox. 
The rest of the time was spent in the rooms of 
the museum of the Historical Society, where was 
preserved a very interesting collection of colonial 
relics. 



3o8 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

I tliought you would like " Fishing Jimmy." 
The effect of such lives is not lost ; like the prayers 
of the saints, they are preserved in heaven. The 
Pilgrim was bent down to earth, raking something 
he thought was there, but the crown above he did 
not see. Fervent prayers and good, holy lives rise 
like incense up to heaven. We do not know always 
here what good and great is, and in the future life 
there will be great reversals and changes in the 
relative place of men from the standard here. 

What a pleasant world this would be if we could 
select out from all we have known the best seasons, 
places, and, more than all, friends ; but Providence 
does not intend that for us, for we should then be 
given over to this world, while our real home is in 
another ; and so we might be strangers in a strange 
land forever. 

It is a beautiful theory that thoughts once ut 
tered will never cease their sounding, but are 
somewhere in the universe, repeating the words, or 
the music, forever — often listened to by spirits, as 
they float away to the happy isles. 

I have sometimes seemed to catch a few faint 
words or tones of a song so sweet that no human 
tongue could speak them. 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 309 

I want nothing evil preserved in my storehouse 
of dear, pleasant memories — dear, even though 
the friends should forget or become estranged. 

We are reading the " Curse of Kehama," by 
Southey. The " Curse " has great beauties and 
great defects. We take turns in selecting subjects, 
and when this was chosen there was but one copy 
to be bought or borrowed in Hartford, so far as we 
could learn. It is instructive to see how men are 
forgotten. Southey was a poet-laureate of Eng- 
land, and now no one has his greatest work. The 
descriptions are wonderful. I do not think much 
of the general plot. It has its foundations in Hin- 
doo mythology. Southey was, no doubt, an ad- 
mirer of Dante. It is a Hindoo story — gods and 
men mingled in strange confusion. I used to take 
great interest in those eastern mythologies. In the 
midst of the chaos of disgusting things, there are 
some sublime ideas. 

It was a great pleasure to see your last letter 
beginning with a German sentence. Of course, 
we must study, or we will forget. German is a 
noble tongue, and, to my ears, very musical. 
Italian is music itself, and noble ; but the Teutonic 
has more than beauty. My first teacher had been 
a professor in a German university. My earliest 



3IO EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

piece was from Goethe ; it was of startling interest 
to me. Prose is not more beautiful than in many- 
other languages, but its poetry is charming, and 
there is much of it, and of the highest order. 

I was pleased with the series of articles upon 
Methodists. What a wonderful history they have 
had ! How much good they have done in the 
world ! And how great has been their influence 
on other denominations ! Years ago I had a few 
decided objections to many of their practices, and, 
perhaps, have now — something in practice, and 
something in their belief — but their peculiarities 
are passing away. I have always been a Calvinist, 
and am not ready to give up anything now ; but I 
must admit some old supposed truths do not look 
to me quite as they did in former time. I think 
our fathers fought bravely about points of no prac- 
tical value. That which makes a man a Christian 
is the same in every evangelical denomination. 
There is enough in any and all for Christians to 
unite upon, and leave the difficult questions to a 
time when men shall become wiser. Although 
strong in the faith of my church, I could unite with 
any church that founds its faith on an intelligent 
interpretation of the Word of God. 

Some of the grandest events among the nations ; 
some of the noblest deeds of individual heroism ; 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 311 

and some of the most beautiful thoughts of the 
noblest and fairest, have never been written, and 
never can be. 

Psalm 35 : 14 : " The secret of the Lord is with 
them that fear Him." What is the secret of the 
Lord ? What is it to fear Him ? The secret : To 
know the glory and harmony of divine perfection, 
which encourages trust in His love ; sweet com- 
munion which the believer enjoys with God his 
Saviour ; peace and joy that " spring from the 
earnest of the vSpirit " ; the calm, sweet delight that 
comes from the consciousness of the holy, loving 
hand of God ever upon us, and to taste even a little 
of the beauty of holinCvSS. One man believes in 
God ; another, under the same circumstances, does 
not. Why ? The one has learned the secret. One 
man believes " all things work together for good " ; 
another does not. One man finds a delight in a 
holy life ; another does not. To one the Scriptures 
.shine with the radiance of noonday sun ; to an- 
other all is dark. To one the attributes of God are 
attractive beauties; to another the characteristics 
of a tyrant. To one life, however humble, has 
more joys than tongue can describe ; to another 
joyless, without one star in all his leaden sky. 
There lies the secret — to those who have it, clear 
as sunlight ; to those who have it not, without ex- 
istence. 



312 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



Fear. In good men the fear of God is a holy- 
awe or reverence of God and His laws ; with bad 
men a fearful apprehension of merited punish- 
ment. John 8: 17: "If any man will do His will 
he shall know of the doctrine," etc. That is, they 
know the secrets of God who are willing to eio His 
will. Experience shows that in proportion as we 
love God and do His will, and work, in that propor- 
tion is our insight clear and our faith strong ; but 
evil-doers and rebels are, as a natural consequence, 
unbelievers, without any evidence of divine truth, 
and are constantly sinking deeper and deeper in 
the black swamp of infidelity. 

I used to wonder how the martyrs could go forth 
to their dreadful death, but the truth is they had 
learned wonderful secrets — so delightful and trans- 
porting that neither fire, nor rack, nor hungry lions 
had any power of fear over them. They might, 
perhaps, have seen the dreadful preparations, but 
they also saw farther, to things unspeakable. They 
were not driven to death by sense of duty, but drawn 
by glories others could not see — secrets clear to 
their eyes — God's everlasting love. 

My recollection of my visit to the two places is 
very sweet. The one was quite unlike the other ; 
each was delightful in a thousand ways. I felt a 
fascination in the sea-washed shores, inviting noble 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



313 



tlioug-hts, lifting a little out of self. I could find 
companionship in those rugged rocks, could sit for 
hours and days, read long volumes of inexpressible 
thoughts and feelings on their torn faces ; but 
they would not invite sociability — rather silence. 
That was a place in which one might be alone, and 
yet not alone. 

The green world, however, is another world — 
loving and friendly — in which we feel we are liv- 
ing, breathing human beings, part of a family. 
Some are hateful, but more have amiable quali- 
ties ; some we like, and some we love ; and our 
poor hearts beat wildly with contending emotions. 
This is a fallen world — fallen very far down ; but 
it bestows upon us hours, days, and years of un- 
speakable happiness. What an Eden it would have 
been if sin had not entered to blast everything ! 
But nothing present, nor to come, can rob poor 
mortals of faith, hope, and love. 

The strongest proofs of the truth of Christianity, 
to me, are conversions. 

The little book, " Gold Dust," grows in value and 
improves on acquaintance. There is a great deal 
in it not very welcome to everyone at all times, but 
for all that very healthful. I intend to read it some 
every morning — we are often called to do what we 



314 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



naturally do not desire to do. It is not easy to 
love the rude and mean — " tired of doing little 
things ? " Well, I used to be, but now I do not 
know what little things are. Great things look small 
at a distance, and little things often make a great 
deal of noise ; a pin will cause great pain ; a clown is 
usually represented as fat and clumsy. A rich man 
gives a large sum of money, but it does not weigh 
so much as the widow's farthing. Dives can en- 
dow a university, but it is a mere trifle compared 
with suffering a small thing for conscience sake. 

The world thinks it is grand and brave to go out 
to meet the foe, or the assassin, or some natural 
danger, but it may be harder to sit in the place 
where God has placed us. No, we shall not know 
what things are great, and what small, till we see 
them in the light that only dimly shines in this 
world. 

There is no religion in sadness. God meant us 
to be glad, to sing and rejoice like the birds. But 
for the " fall " there would have been one ceaseless 
anthem of unmingled joy and delight. I think in 
all undisturbed nature, except our race, this is the 
fact now. 

There are some friendships almost love ; they 
are firm and mighty, and last life-long. The relig- 
ious sentiment and some peculiar mental character- 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



315 



istics add to the enduring quality. But that other 
kindred passion is not friendship, though they may 
walk together with joined hands ; it can rarely exist 
except in the case of parent and child, or of man 
and woman. Friendship is calm and peaceful, con- 
scious of no sun, no rain, nor storm — but in the 
other we are in the grasp of a power like a tornado. 
Love to me is a grand oratorio. At times the 
sweetest airs on the most delicate instruments are 
heard, but soon we may tremble under a full or- 
chestra such as man cannot construct nor at his own 
volition play. Friendship is a great pleasure like 
the gentle breath of summer. It may not be so 
abiding, because so little is at stake. Sometimes it 
is made in a breath, but when it is gone only a 
slight, dim impression is left behind. It was not 
deep and nothing is left. 

Some friendships grow stronger though the per- 
sons are far away ; so strong that we seem to see or 
hear over vast distances of earth and time. What 
a strange network binds human hearts — so fine, so 
gentle, so sweet — and may be stronger than iron 
cable and more cruel than the grave. 

Round two hearts a golden chain 
Was drawn, forever to remain ; 

In Heaven the tiny links were cast, 
Immortal hands to earth convey 

With mystic locks, the ends make fast, 
And take the golden key away. 



3i6 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

Those who have given their hearts to God as well 
as to each other will know no change on earth, no 
change through all the cycles of eternity. Love is 
a God-given gift. Let us tread lightly and rever- 
ently before the author. 

There is a Heaven-sent passion that descends 
upon mortals, and they are no longer the same ; a 
golden glow covers everything — defects and im- 
perfections are veiled. Sometimes it is the dawn of 
unbounded happiness, sometimes woe. 

How full of our wants our hearts are. We think 
if we only could do what we please, Heaven would 
begin on our earth. The thought and longing is 
some good. It is better to have a longing for some 
good thing than to possess something the world 
may choose. 

Hearts that truly love will find each other in that 
great multitude that no tongue can number, and go 
on hand in hand, upward, forever to the Father's 
throne, who is love. There is nothing greater to 
hope for in this life — nothing — that is the filling 
up of our cup of bliss. 

1892. — A beautiful object does not make the same 
impression upon all minds, it is true ; but there was a 
culminating point of time in all my remembered 
days, too sacred to be talked about, holy, as I would 
have my death-bed hour. The first in point of time, 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



317 



it will never be repeated by me under changed cir- 
cumstances. My lips would refuse their office in 
such an act of sacrilege. 

It is strange how much pleasure hangs upon lit- 
tle things ; perhaps we don't know what little and 
great things are in this world — a prayer, a tear of 
joy or sorrow. 

If there were no sin, no disease, no sickness, no 
want, with all the sweet, beautiful things the world 
affords, that would be Heaven. 

How many painful hours are spent trying to 
make others happy ! I have no doubt that among the 
persons we meet in our daily walks, year after year, 
and feel repulsed by their look, that, if we knew 
them well, we would find a friend who would be to 
us an unfailing delight. 

The face is a great tell-tale, but it does not tell 
the whole story, nor always the truth. What pleas- 
ant discoveries we shall make when we wake up 
far away ! One day we may read volumes of life 
with continued wonder and delight. 

There is a great pleasure in making a good effort, 
even if not successful as you would desire. Did you 
ever think that so far as spiritual things are con- 
cerned, and in reference to ounselves, success is the 



3i8 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

effort, not the result of an effort, but the effort it- 
self, even though to others it may seem a failure ? 
But in this world we do not know always what re- 
sults are successes. 

1892. — We all like to be free ! — we would like to 
sail away in the high heavens, over hills, groves, 
and sea. How many things we could discover in 
such a picturesque journey ! Some things, as trees, 
fields, houses, etc., we can see in our present sm- 
bound life ; but what pictures they would be if 
viewed from a great height. 

A glimpse we might get from time to time as we 
ascend a mountain and look around. What pic- 
tures eagles might have if they had any mental 
feelings. 

Do you never for a passing moment think that 
after long years strange revelations will come to 
us of men and things ? I am sometimes impa- 
tient, — all seems a failure. 

Nothing,— I would have had, — almost, — hope 
now dim, — I think often what might have been 
and is not, and almost am ready for the summons, 
but that dark time passes away and I think of 
sweet delightful things, — scenes that I would call 
back. 

Through clouds I can see a star ; it grows into 
a happy world of unspeakable delight. 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



319 



Many things in the hand of Providence are in- 
comprehensible ; — but God is good, and right, and 
loving, and consequently what He does will be 
right and best. 

The deepest things cannot be expressed. Sun- 
set depends upon clouds. Deep feelings are 
always serious and sad. 

I wonder if there will be any autumn in the 
spirit world, or will it be always spring? Who 

knows ? 

1892. — The passage you have selected will be 
accepted for the year. " Thou wilt keep him in 
perfect peace whose mind in stayed on Thee." 
This passage is of uncommon interest to me. I 
heard a sermon preached from it many years ago 
that made a greater impression 'than any other, I 
think. It was in a revival, not of the noisy character; 
it was preached by a great revival preacher of those 
days, now dead. It was a simple, earnest state- 
ment that seemed short, though it was really long. 
The two great thoughts in it were : " In perfect 
peace whose heart is stayed on Thee " (^God). That 
sermon has rung in my ears all the by-gone years. 
I have told it to many as my golden sermon. I can 
see him, how he looked, his soul on fire with his 
subject. I consider it the great sermon of my life. 



320 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

That poetry is a powerful means of culture, is 
good, but of course we cannot always look at 
autumnal tints, or flowers, or sunsets, or landscapes ; 
but after the iron work of the day is done there 
is usually a time we might use to refine and elevate 
the fibre of our souls. Surely what could be better 
for that purpose than the most beautiful works of 
the most refined minds ! 

I think that really great poetry must be studied, 
rather than read ; it has been wrought out of the 
very souls of the authors, by long, patient labor — 
sometimes painful ; — we cannot comprehend it 
without time and effort, perhaps like a mine it may 
require hard digging, but in the end it yields pure 
gold. Every time I read Milton, Shakespeare, 
Tennyson, and others, they seem to be greater and 
better. Sometimes a few lines, read many times all 
at once, open up to me in wondrous beauty ; as a 
sample, I enclose a few lines of the " Merchant of 
Venice," that impressed me a short time ago as 
marvelous. Surely a soul should become nobler by 
meditating on noble thoughts. 

From the Aferi/iant of Venice. 

" Look ! how the floor of Heaven 

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ; 

There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest, 

But in his motion like an angel sings, 

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims ; 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 321 

Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it." 

Mrs. Heman's ode is very beautiful ; full of 
pleasant thoughts, she loved nature and could read 
its volume. I suppose her poems are not read now- 
much, nor regarded as great, but she has contri- 
buted many beautiful and good things to our 
literature. 

Dr. Mather preached a sermon on God's father- 
hood. He is pastor of the old orthodox church 
founded by Mr. Hooker, who, in very early times, 
came across the wilderness, probably from Newton, 
near Boston. He looks upon God as a Father, with 
all the loving qualities of the only perfect of all 
fathers. The old idea of predestination is not in 
the sermon, but the real truth may be. Predesti- 
nation as first preached was a dreadful doctrine to 
me ; but perhaps we do not understand it, and in 
time many dark things will grow light. I hesitate 
to change anything in my creed. It is pleasant to 
think of God as a father who loves all His children. 

Thank you for the account of Venus of Milo. I 
remember the statue in Paris, one of great beauty 
and interesting in its history. It is almost in- 
credible what skill the ancients had, which the 



322 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

younger world has so largely lost. No doubt many 
precious artistic creations are now lying- mutilated 
under the ruins of old cities, or have been ground 
to dust under the tramp of two thousand years. 

The sea is always interesting to me. I am im- 
pressed by it, like to watch it and dream over it ; 
but it is always the same " cruel treacherous thing." 
I always feel serious by its side, as if God were 
there. 

Browning will be always admired, but all his 
poems will not. Part will fall out, but many are of 
rare excellence. It is a great pity that a gem 
should be obscured by a fancy that obscurity is 
excellence. He is great in thought, and that is the 
highest quality in poetry, but he does violence to 
his mother tongue. 

We are bound to be as great and good as possi- 
ble ; to use our abilities to the utmost ; because 
that is a good in itself. That, however, is not the 
motive that incites men to action, ordinarily ; it is 
that they may have a name, to be honored by future 
generations. Never did a thinking being choose a 
thing more unsubstantial. Do you think ten per- 
sons in all New England living to-day will be 
known or thought of one hundred and fifty years 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



323 



hence ? It might be a pleasure to some to know 
their names were in some old books in a mouldy 
library. Posterity will not preserve the name of 
one, out of many millions of our race, even in 
historic countries. Therefore he who runs in this 
race is chasing- a cloud, that if we could reach 
it would seem to have no form or substance ; it 
would be a race for chaff, for the wind. Is there 
nothing for us to strive after? Yes. We have 
infinite possibilities before us. Riches, honor, 
reputation, learning, are something to be desired, 
but they are also sometimes very hollow ; they are 
mostly treasures of this world to be kept here, 
worthless as the stock of a broken bank. 

But if we can add something to the aggregate of 
human happiness, or take away something of 
misery, then we will have laid up treasure in 
heaven. In a handful of sand there may be a 
diamond ; you do not see it ; tread upon it ; it is not 
harmed, it is one of the hardest of substances ; sub- 
ject it to the heat of a furnace, it will not melt or 
burn ; but wash away the earth and it will gleam 
with wonderful brightness. Every child, however 
disagreeable in face or clothed in however un- 
sightly rags, has concealed not a diamond, but 
something made out of the breath of God, that 
even the combined misery of the world cannot 
crush, nor the fires of the second death consume. 



324 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

What a glorious success it would be to direct one 
such little soul, so that it shall not wander forever 
striving to hide from the eye of holiness, desir- 
ing above all things to die, always dying, yet never 
dead, but, on the other hand, to lead it, so that it 
shall go on forever, shining brighter, glowing more 
and more as it becomes more capable of reflecting 
the rays of the Divine Father, through all the 
ceaseless cycles of the future. Though we may 
not see the results of labor to-day, what a joy it will 
be after time is past, as you walk the golden streets, 
if someone should leave the angel choir for a 
moment to come down to thank you for directing 
him in the way of life, and point to a long line of 
friends and neighbors who are also there in conse- 
quence of your labors. If the Queen of England 
has been the instrument of saving one soul, it will 
be in that day the cause of more pride than to have 
been the queen of the greatest empire in the world. 
Can any talent be hid, when as the result of any 
day's work an impulse may be given, that will not 
end until a new star is hung out in God's firma- 
ment. 

The heart is a great deal bigger than the tongue ; 
it sometimes contains treasures that can never be 
conveyed to another. The intellect produces New- 
tons and Miltons, but "God is love." There is 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



325 



something that will outlive the misfortune and 
bitterness of earth, and bloom with everlasting 
beatitude forever, for to exercise a strong and holy 
love is to grow daily more like God. I know of 
nothing human so Christlike as mother love. In 
this world we must make Christ our righteousness ; 
some day we shall be like Him, for we shall see 
Him as He is. 

The future is veiled ; 'tis well it is so, for if it 
shall be evil we are saved the pain of anticipation ; 
if it shall be good we can also gather the flowers 
now within our reach. 

I send you a flower not beautiful nor fragrant, 
but it was picked by me a few feet from the ice of 
the Swiss Alps of the Rhone glacier about seven 
thousand feet above the sea. It is there called the 
Alpine Rose, but I think it is a species of Rhodo- 
dedron. My " Whisperings " were manufactured on 
one of the warm sunny days, just passed. 

One finds Wordsworth a little hard to become 
interested in — that was my experience some years 
ago. I knew he was a great poet, admired by 
many whose opinions were valued. To me it was 
very tame, and in short was given up. Some years 
after, having heard a lecture upon him, another 



326 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

attempt was made with a different result. I then 
read more carefully. The Excursion was read 
twice, most of it aloud to myself — alone — not too 
much at a time — and in the end it was much liked. 
Many of his shorter poems are good, but that is my 
favorite. I think he grows upon you like a good 
friend, as the acquaintance become more intimate. 
He has been called the poet of nature, and his resi- 
dence among the English Lakes has rendered them 
to many hallowed ground. 

No one can tell where the departed are. If we 
could draw back a very thin veil perhaps we should 
find ourselves in the midst of angels and blessed 
spirits, and when to others we seem to de- 
part, it may be to us only the throwing off our 
rags and infirmities and waking up into everlasting 
glories. This, of course, is only speculation, but I 
am sure that the reality will be better than we can 
imagine — " Eye hath not seen nor ear heard." We 
are so encased in our earthly tabernacle that it 
darkens all our vision and fetters all our power of 
thought and action, and we know not much about 
our spiritual possibilities ; we are like caged birds 
that never flew. Think of the life of the poor im- 
prisoned thing compared with what it would be if 
it could spread its wings and soar away above the 
tree-tops out into the sky, and then look down upon 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 327 

the world below. The higher the flight, the farther 
will the vision extend. 

To place flowers upon a neglected grave is a 
sweet thing to do. The sleeper may not know it, 
but a living friend may be made glad, may be 
made to feel that there are unselfish friends in the 
world ; but more, the giver will be lifted up a little 
nearer Heaven, for, while a mean selfish act lets us 
down, a kind, unselfish act will add wings to our 
upward flight. A visit to a cemetery is a good 
thing. I feel better for going there. It is not a 
pleasure, but there may be a holy satisfaction, a 
growth of soul, an experience we would not seek, 
but yet would not miss. There is the connecting 
cord between the present and the past. At home 
we remember our friends as they were — they are 
not the same now — but, in the cemetery, we are re- 
lated to them as they are and as we shall one day 
be. 

Activity, love, and hope are the great factors in 
our earthly happiness. We might write sermons 
upon each topic, and, looking into our own hearts, we 
might speak much truth, because it is ourselves and 
what we know. Happiness comes, but we long for 
more. I have deep longings for many things. I 
want much time for reading and study, for the ex- 



328 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

ercise of my pen, for seeing the world, for doing 
good to the unfortunate. Ah ! what a change I would 
make in the old, wicked world. No doubt multi- 
tudes wonder why Providence has not favored them 
more, but probably we would not do as we think 
we would, andourlono^ed-for good-fortune might be 
the cause of our spiritual loss. Very few persons 
who are not compelled to do something ever ac- 
complish anything. My dissatisfaction is easily 
cured by thinking how many people are poor, dis- 
figured, ill-shapen, feeble-minded, afflicted, and 
friendless, troubled in many ways, whose whole life 
is sickening to think of as we view them, when 
many of them in the sight of God are better than I 
am. Whom does the Lord chastise ? Why should 
He favor me and leave some of His dearest children 
in want ? I have walked around this circle many 
times and learned a lesson. 

On leaving Hubbardston the ride was very inter- 
esting. On arriving at Williamstown I found the 
village was full of strangers — returning students 
and their friends. I was out early before breakfast 
for a walk, and I found the village one of the most 
beautiful places I was ever in. There is not much 
here besides the college and buildings. I spent the 
day inspecting parks, museum, etc. One of the 
most interesting things was the monument, raised 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 329 

on the site of the haystack where the prayer meet- 
ing was held which resulted in the American Board 
for Foreign Missions. On the " Haystack " monu- 
ment were cut the names of the men, and one of 
them was Francis L. Robbins, my old minister 
when I was a boy. 

Two boy friends and myself visited the " Tower," 
a place of resort on the mountain — we call it so — 

about ten miles from H . We went part of 

the way by cars, but walked up and back, not far 
from ten miles. It was a delightful walk, over hill 
and dale, through pleasant farms, then white with 
apple blossoms. The sun was bright and the air 
clear, but not too warm. We watched the birds, 
stopped to hear their songs, particularly the bobo- 
link ; admired the nimble squirrel, rested when we 
could have a fine view, drank from the mountain 
spring, and at last emerged from a forest to the 
open space on the top, from which we had a de- 
lightful view of the Farmington valley. The boys 
threw stones over the precipitous western side. We 
walked along the ridge of the hill, enjoyed the most 
delightful scenery. The air was so clear we could 
see at a great distance towns and villages that glis- 
tened in the sunlight. I hardly know of a place so 
delightful as this little mountain top, not quite a 
thousand feet in height. 



330 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

How weak we are when sickness and other evils 
overtake us — almost children again — but we must 
work on. We sometimes wonder why God permits 
so much at once, but He does not tell us, does not 
utter a word to our ears ; yet I believe He is a God 
of love, and yearns over us, His children, as no 
mother can. We have no right to call Him to ac- 
count, but we should pray, believe, and trust. We 
may not always receive what we pray for, but it 
may be better, a thousand-fold. Have courage ! 
Look on the bright side, and hope. So far as hu- 
man life is concerned, this is a dreadful world, 
though it might be a paradise. I have frequent oc- 
casion to see the dark side. In face of all that, I 
believe there is nothing more true than that " all 
things work together for good to those who love 
God." 

There is a beautiful thought in your quotation : 

" Give Him thy first thought, 
So shalt thou keep Him company all the day, 
And in Him rest." 

To come ever in company of the wisest, greatest, 
most beautiful, and most loving being in the uni- 
verse, and also " in Him rest " ; there is no other 
perfect rest in this life; it is constant toil or anxiety, 
waiting, fearing, and failure. Yet this rest in 
Christ is not idleness, but eternal activity — activity 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 331 

because it is a pleasure. Rest in Heaven is freedom 
from evil. 

I have read the " Greatest Need of the World " 
Avith delight, and shall read it again. I have been 
studying the particular features of Christ's charac- 
ter that I may think of Him and about Him every 
day. Do you think this principle has a wider ap- 
plication ? Supposing I think of some friend I 
know every day, what effect will it have on me ? 
I see it ; I feel it. I have often thought of that time 
when you read to me " The Greatest Thing in the 
World." 

There is something very attractive in the natural 
movements of little folks. This I think is partly 
due to the fact that they have not been spoiled by 
fashion and the selfish and shallow notions of the 
age. They are usually just as they should be, and 
as they were intended to be. The human race, you 
know, had many divine qualities in Eden, and if 
they had not fallen they would have, in many re- 
spects, resembled the angels in heaven, and so, in 
the unspoiled innocence of childhood, many of their 
actions have the beauty and innocence of those 
lost excellences. I have some little friends I love 
to see : one little girl not more than six years old, 
Mabel ; a little boy, perhaps eight years old, " Chub- 
bie." He writes to me occasionally. 



332 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

The " musicale " was delightful, but what would 
you have thought if you had seen me sawing my 
violin. It was a fact. I should like to have heard 
the sermon you wrote about, " God so loved the 
world," etc. I hardly know a passage equal to it in 
all literature. 

Our club took advantage of the fine weather and 
went to a hill near Farmington on an " apple blos- 
som " picnic. Plato thought that some of those 
ideas that come into our minds unbidden were the 
dim recollections of a previous state of existence. 
Perhaps that is so. I must have lived in some other 
world in which there was something very delight- 
ful in relation to the apple trees which made an im- 
pression so deep that time cannot efface it. I wish 
it had been so arranged that with these dim recol- 
lections there had also been foreordained the 
return of the things themselves. That, how- 
ever, could not be, for, forewarned by memory, we 
should hold on to the pleasant things with all our 
might, and then, if we were strong enough, the 
world would cease to move. 

We are very discontented beings ! We do not 
want it to be very cold, or very hot, or very dry, or 
very wet. But I think we have the best climate our 
mother earth presents. How would we enjoy the 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 333 

tropics, with their broiling sun and fevers, magnifi- 
cent vegetation, alligators, snakes, and tarantala? 
and then Greenland and the snow houses, yes, and 
the fur clothing (the ladies admire fur cloaks even 
here) ; dear me, think how luxurious a dinner must 
be cut off from a fat piece of whale's blubber? 
New England for me ; but for all that, it is cold 
here just now. Don't you think we could have that 
hole out in Manitoba through which it is said the 
cold wave comes stopped up tight ? 

I have often heard the " Messiah " with great de- 
light. The emotions produced are a little too great 
for me to comprehend : in such a performance they 
seem to take me up by force, carry me away as in a 
whirlwind, away to the ends of the earth, up to the 
stars, but when returning to myself there is a sensa- 
tion of indescribable joy, but yet of something too 
great for me to appreciate. This goes to show that 
there are many things " eye hath not seen nor ear 
heard," etc., which we shall be able to under- 
stand in the far-off future. I like Elijah very 
much. A few days ago I had a very interesting 
experience. There is a club here of colored young 
men — of the selected specimens — and they had a 
banquet, their first, at which Frederick Douglass was 
present and delivered a lecture upon John Brown. 
The president of the club is the janitor of our build- 



334 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLORS LETTERS 



ing ; he attended to my wants last year when I was 
sick. Gov. Jewell and other gentlemen were pres- 
ent. The table was beautifully set and well served. 
I was greatly interested at the sight of the black 
faces contrasting with the white napkins. Most of 
the negroes had good heads, indicating great possi- 
bilities for them in the future. Speeches were 
made by Mr. Douglass, two ex-governors, and sev- 
eral colored persons. What a strange thing that 
Providence, to enlighten the negro, should have 
brought him on a long journey of two centuries of 
slavery ! How little can we tell what shall be from 
what is. A hundred years hence they who are liv- 
ing will be astonished to see how in the progress of 
that race God has caused " the wrath of man to 
praise the Lord." 

Our club has just begun to read Carlyle's " Hero 
and Hero Worship." I have read it times before, 
but like it better every time. It is said a book 
worth reading once is worth reading twice. 

One of the finest things in Dante is when he rises 
on a chariot on his way to the heaven of God. 

The mind, if we do not control it, will wander 
away over strange, sometimes beautiful, fields, 
where we may meet delightful acquaintances, and 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 335 

hear words we cannot remember — they are too 
sweet, too heavenly — perhaps not of this world. 

While we are trying to fix a thought with our 
clumsy pencil, a hundred have flown away and are 
lost. I have an untiring admiration for trees. I know 
there is a vast activity going on, from the smallest 
root-fibres, far away under ground, to the points of 
its soft leaves — wonderful and beautiful. They 
stand so noble, so gentle, spreading their broad 
arms over us, shading us by their soft, green foliage, 
each leaf of which is a wonder of beauty ; if a 
breeze comes along, they wave their heads with in- 
finite grace and respect. Sometimes there comes 
a low sigh or whisper, to which we must listen at- 
tentively if we would catch it — a sweet voice, tell- 
ing a tale or singing a song ; but, alas ! it is in an 
unknown tongue. I believe every sound of nature 
is a word, though we do not know its meaning. 
One day I hope to know " The many tongues of 
nature's speech." 

Flowers are preachers — each has a peculiar text, 
but all are upon the same subject, which is beauty ; 
about the same thing, as to tell about God, who is 
the perfection of beauty in His being, thought, and 
deed. 

Are you enjoying this charming October weather ? 
The autumn has been very delightful — in fact, the 



336 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

whole year has been almost without a parallel. I 
like the time of the falling leaf. The world is then 
so beautiful, and, withal, so serious. Times of 
laughter, gladness, and merriment are all good in 
their way — often, too — but how cheap the world 
would be without its solemn, serious hours ! We 
should then be like butterflies and birds, who know 
nothing about the exalting emotions of soul and 
spirit. The poor, beautiful leaves lie upon the 
ground. I am sorry for them, but they will come 
again — perhaps, brighter than ever. And we also 
shall come again in our spring. A few days ago I 
had occasion to walk a mile or so in the country ; 
having time, rested under a tree near a stone wall 
— a silent world, no noise. It is under such cir- 
cumstances our best thoughts come to us. I am 
not sure but that angels visit us then once in a 
while ; their voices are not heard, nor does the 
sound of their moving wings reach our dull ears, 
but a delightful influence is felt from things unseen, 
perhaps. 

Thanksgiving. — I am strong in my admiration 
of old Pilgrim customs. I went Thanksgiving day 
to Tariffville, fourteen iniles west, to my brother's, 
and it was pleasanter than I expected, for you 
know it is a sad day for me ; it seems inevitable, 
for it has its foundations in earthly relations. I 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



337 



wish the day had been kept as a religious day ; then 
we could all have been thankful, for the kind 
Father has showered upon us blessings without 
measure, and when we thank God for his favors 
we look forward, we hope ; and hope is full of glad- 
ness. 

Christmas takes hold of heavenly things. If we 
will look out of ourselves, it is to the Christ Child. 
There is nothing in this world so beautiful as child- 
hood, and there is, or was, one child infinitely more 
beautiful than any other. 

My paternal relatives are scattered far and wide. 
Westfield, Mass., was an early diverging point, and 
now they are in New York city and state, Michi- 
gan, Carolinas, New Orleans, among Rocky Moun- 
tains, etc., somewhat numerous, but many of them 
I have never seen. No one of that name, to my 
knowledge, was ever found to be an angel, though, 
so far as I know, I have no occasion to be ashamed 
of any of them. 

Accident of August, i8go, at Quincy, Mass. 

The terrible events that occurred the day of my 
leaving Cottage City hang like a pall on my spirits, 
and will for a long time. In that train was an aunt 
of mine, in whose house I spent my first six years 
in Hartford — ^Mrs. Olcott Allen. She was a very 



338 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

worthy lady, a superior woman. With her was 
Bessie Allen, her granddaughter. They were both 
killed, probably withorut any consciousness of their 
fate. It would be a blessing for us all to go as 
quietly. What a long, dreary dying we have, some 
of us ! They will be buried in Hartford, where 
other members of the family are sleeping. It has 
been a great shock to me. I might have been in 
that train, in that car ; it was strange I was not. I 
do not know whether it would have been good or 
evil. It is dangerous to discuss God's providence. 
We are free beings, and make our own fortunes. 
We cannot understand it, but He loves us with an 
infinite love. Why this excellent mother and beau- 
tiful daughter, fitted to be useful in the world, were 
taken away so suddenly, I do not ask ; but firmly 
believe " all things work together for good to those 
who love God," and that He loves his creatures 
with an infinite tenderness. I suppose these things 
occur as they ought, as they must, not because they 
are elected to be so, as men say ; but the harmony 
of divine government and personal moral freedom 
of each of us cannot exist without it. 

Byron was a very great poet, a natural poet, full 
of beauty and feeling. If the poison could be ex- 
tracted from the sweet, there would be very much 
to admire in the profound feeling of his verses, 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS y^o^ 

which were a life-long lament for unsatisfied love, 
engrafted upon a heart soiled and rebellious, full of 
bitterness against God and man, I do not accept 
his theory, nor did he believe that 

" Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
'Tis woman's whole existence " ; 

for in his last poem he says : 

" Yet though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love." 

I think no dividing line can be drawn. A man 
must go out to battle with the world, and, therefore, 
sometimes becomes clothed in a rugged bark, and 
some persons by nature have hearts dry as husks ; 
yet gold is gold, in whatever form or surroundings 
it may be placed. Some of his poems have rung in 
my ears from childhood. The sentiment is very 
fascinating ; he is full of poetic fire and originality. 
I feel my soul stirred to its depths by them. He 
has an emotional element beyond anyone else, but 
with that he is said to have great defects, literary 
as well as moral. His soul took fire suddenly, and 
we feel dragged along with him. Yet he was al- 
most destitute of moral principle. Nothing was 
wrong for him he desired to do ; nothing was sacred 
he desired to desecrate. In his writings were para- 
graphs of beauty and deep feeling almost beyond 
a parallel. He had a brilliant setting for a poet. 



340 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

but men never or seldom become great poets who 
are destitute of moral sense. When he sank down 
into the pit of his own digging there was a fiery- 
glow of beauty that lingered after men began to 
forget — like the burning of a ship far off on the 
dark sea ; we see the glow when all else is perish- 
ing. 

I do not agree with Socrates in the opinion that 
"there can no evil befall a good man," if taken lit- 
erally, for some of the best men ever known to me 
have been very unfortunate in many ways, an evil 
destiny seems to hang upon them, and the most 
earnest labors, seemingly well-directed, have left in 
their hands nothing but ashes. 

There is, nevertheless, a great truth behind that 
sentence. It is, I think, a rude way for saying, 
" All things work together for good to them that 
love God " (Romans 8:28). 

The events of life to some seem to be tumbled 
along without design or order, but it is not so ; 
everything is ordered, and every little event involv- 
ing us is for a purpose. If we love God, it is a 
means to a great end ; that, however aimless or 
valueless it may seem, is directed with infinite wis- 
dom and benevolence. We may beat our heads 
against a wall in our effort to resist what seems an 
unfriendly fate. We shall fail. But the beating 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



341 



of our poor heads may prove a medicine sent us by 
the Great Physician. It is a marvel that Socrates, 
who was a heathen, and who had never heard of 
the true God, should have found out so many wise, 
noble things. He seems the greatest mystery and 
the grandest character in the heathen world. All 
things work for good to the God-loving. 

How many pleasant associations hang around the 
violet. Perhaps no flowers were in my boyhood's 
path so often, or were more beautiful in them- 
selves. My mind's eye can see great patches of 
them standing close, ranked in some sunny spot, 
nodding to the breezes of the early spring. 

In the plant world under continuous showers a 
wonderful transformation is going on, nothing less 
than a resurrection from the dead, and a grand 
bridal feast to last for half a year. What a beauti- 
ful carpet mother earth is spreading for the gather- 
ing ; so pleasant to the eye in its general effect and 
upon close examination found to comprise details 
of infinite variety and artistic beauty. 

No royal manufactory ever produced carpet or 
tapestry so beautiful as good mother nature spreads 
to the foot of her poorest child, on this loving occa- 
sion. Invisible fairy fingers seem to be busy from 
ever}^ — just now — brown twig, green leaves packed 
away with infinite care, in tiny bundles, crowning 



342 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

fheir work with smiling faces of love speaking 
flowers. I look with unspeakable joy upon this 
spring resurrection, not only as a pleasure to the 
senses, but as a proof of our endless life. The 
hand that keeps the life of a tender bud through 
the ice of winter to awake in the spring will not 
leave our souls to perish. I am a lover of nature in 
all its forms ; never feel alone conversing with 
beast, bird, or plant. 

Some philosophers believe in a previous state of 
existence. I cannot tell where, nor how, it is very 
dim, perhaps a cobweb of a dream, but in that far- 
off future it will not become faint again. We may 
not credit the old theory, but the treasure of recol- 
lection will not fail in the future. Every dear, 
true, good, holy experience will be a joy, as every 
thousand years shall pass away. This moon is the 
famous harvest moon when it seems to linger with 
us and smile more lovingly, but the weather is so 
cloudy we have lost it. After all, the moon shines 
on in all its beauty, it is only the damp, cloudy 
drapery of earth that hides it from us, and its silver 
light is poured out in unspeakable splendor upon 
our world, though we see it not. The smiles of 
God are flooding us just as truly. 

I like "orthodoxy," and my preferences are de- 
cided ; but to me, a Christian of any evangelical 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 343 

creed, is a real Christian ; and if necessary, I could 
find a home with any company of believers, who 
found their hope of salvation upon the merits of 
the Son of God, come in the flesh, according to the 
Gospel. When traveling it was my custom to 
attend the church that was established or promi- 
nent in any city where I chanced to be. 

Extracts from Historical Report of Church for iSSy. 
Read February 2, 1888. 

We have no means of estimating results. It is 
largely a work in our inner life that the world can 
but dimly see, a work going on silently in many 
souls — we hope in all — that is changing the moral 
and religious life in response to our seeking, as 
truly as the warm sun, the water, and the rich earth, 
are developing the acorn into an oak. It is silent, 
but almost all great processes of nature are silent. 
We cannot see the growth of a forest tree, but we 
can see that it has grown. We can see after the 
lapse of years, also, that many of our friends are not 
quite what they were. There is something about 
them more noble, gentle, loving, and a few seem to 
have been eating angel's food. 

The real history of a church is of that descrip- 
tion, and if we knew of some library in which the 
facts could be learned, a history could be written of 
marvelous interest. It is in that character, how- 



344 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



ever concealed from us, that we stand before the 
eye of God, and He deals with us in His providence 
with our soul's life all open before Him. Let us 
not forget that our complete impartial history is 
not to be written in this life, but may be read in 
some far-off nobler gathering. 

Our hearts may sometimes become so encrusted 
with indifference, I hate to say selfishness, that we 
hardly think of others. That crust should be 
broken. We should look around to find where we 
can do some one a favor, or make some one happy. 
The reflex influence upon our own spirits would 
repay us a hundred fold. 

When in silence we recall the past we find multi- 
tudes of delightful reflections, sweet hours of com- 
munion with the Divine Love, when He has seemed 
to smile upon us and to speak to us with a 
voice that surpasses the most delightful music. 
No doubt those favored moments come to many 
more frequently as the years roll on, and the bitter 
side of life is nearly lost in the beginning of a more 
than human existence. 

This is a delightful Zion to dwell in. From the 
pastor in his exalted, responsible seat, down to the 
place of the humblest of our brethren, we find 
nothing to complain of, and we are glad in such 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



545 



a company to make our journey heavenward. Our 
Zion has given delightful opportunities for the 
growth of its membership in Christian graces, — a 
very pleasant place to grow in, but we have not 
yet reached the gardens of the blessed that we 
should lie down and rest. But this for us is the 
hour of labor. We should hold up the hands 
of our pastor, preach grand sermons by con- 
sistent Christian lives, and pray with that mighty 
power that even the humblest disciple can wield, 
who believes that God is our Father, and that He 
hears and will answer. 

Rest and a change are desirable ; they sharpen 
our appetites ; but absolute and continuous rest, 
except Avhen we are sick, would be a torture. The 
body must rest ; it is perishable ; but the soul is no 
doubt Godlike in its nature, and but for its tem- 
porary slavery to a body would never be weary. 
We sometimes look longingly to the time of our 
liberation when we can fly away and be at rest, but 
I think that means rest from sin. We were de- 
signed to be holy and active forever. 'Tis our 
glory to do all we can. 

What a strange thing music is ! It comes with 
the sense of hearing, but withal what a world of 
emotions and pleasure it excites ; we seem to be 

22 



346 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

enjoying Heaven in a thousand ways we cannot 
comprehend, but it is marvelously real at the 
time. I wonder if in the future life — some future 
state we shall realize anything like it. I believe 
we are greater than we know, greater than we be- 
lieve or suspect, — with only some faint under- 
standing of what is in the future — very vague, but 
in the mansions of the blessed, the heart of man 
has never conceived what we shall be. 

How all nature hints of eternal life — a resur- 
rection ! The insect goes to sleep in its chrysalis 
state, having instinctively selected a suitable place, 
and in due time comes out in a nobler and more 
beautiful form. Once wormlike, it spreads its 
wings and soars aloft into a world, compared to the 
first, of inconceivable beauty. The trees drop 
their leaves and rest awhile, to all appearance dead, 
and robed in black ; then winter covers the earth 
with a mantle of white, not death, to protect the 
tender seeds, and they will come again and sing 
and dance all the summer day full of happiness. I 
am never alone out among the hills with the green 
world for my companion. The forest waves its 
leaves over me in love. The flowers have fra- 
grance in their smiles. I enjoy familiar rocks, 
pleasant shade, listening to what the winds and 
trees are talking about, and perchance the note of 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



Z47 



some bird, alone like myself. Alone ? No. I am 
never alone. Nowadays I am sometimes lonesome, 
but not alone. I frequently find pleasanter com- 
panionship when really alone than in company 
with many. There are strange things in our inner 
life. Yes, I do love the natural world when clothed 
in its fresh spring beauty. It is to me a grand 
oratorio with its never discordant chorus and its 
gentle inimitable songs ! 

How many golden opportunities slip away from 
us ! How sweet they look when out of reach, but 
I suppose all things are ordered and sure. We 
must drink in all the joy we are capable of, for 
what is past returns, in part, in memory. An eter- 
nal purpose runs through all events for good, 
though we may not see it. 

Nobody knows surely what is a great action, nor 
what accomplishes much. We only see the outside, 
or at a distance, or what is unfinished. All our ac- 
tions are seeds that will, perhaps, grow to trees or 
weeds, under whose branches we may find protec- 
tion, or that may entangle about our feet and poison 
us when we fall. God only knows what is great or 
small, and we may find ourselves happily or sadly 
disappointed in the far-off. There are in the world 
great, noble, gifted souls, who may seem to ordi- 



348 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 

nary persons to waste their lives in trifles ; but the 
future may reveal a victory greater than kings can 
boast of. 

A few days ago I attended a " Burns Festival," 
and it gave me a great deal of pleasure. I had a 
great liking for Scotch doings when a j^outh, and 
read vScotch poetry and story, and dreamed over its 
hills and lochs. Once, when a boy, I acted in a 
dialogue taken from the " Lady of the Lake " in a 
school exhibition, with great glory to myself (so I 
felt then). A Highland dress was borrowed from 
one who was born among the Bens and Glens ; and 
when we came to the passage, " And, Saxon, I am 
Rhoderick Dhu ! " I felt greater than a king. But 
I do not noiv. 

At this gathering there was first heard the inde- 
scribable tones of a bagpipe, played by a tall man 
in the garb of the glens — half comical and half 
mournful. Scotch dances and songs followed, 
bringing back to me long ago in pleasing variety 
and freshness. I sat in a state of mingled delight. 
I was a boy again ! The audience seemed my 
friends. I had no idea there were so many Scotch- 
men here — in fact, the best emigrants that come 
to us. 

Unconsciously I flew away to Scotland, and lived 
over my visit there. I sailed over the lochs, 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 349 

climbed the hills, wandered through the glens, saw 
Staffa and Zona, the long Caledonian Canal, the 
Grampian Hills, etc., etc. Shall I ever see it again ? 
I admire Burns greatly. He was not altogether 
good, but he sang many delightful things that touch 
a sensitive soul very deeply. They are in sympa- 
thy with our deepest nature. " To Mary in 
Heaven " could not be all fact. " A Fond Kiss be- 
fore we part." "Oh, my Love's like a Red, Red 
Rose." " To a Mouse." The mouse poem seems 
comical at first, but there is in it a store of heart 
and feeling. You know what he means to say, not 
like Browming, who conceals half, if, indeed, he 
could understand it himself. 

One must study Dante to like him. Few persons 
read more than the " Inferno," but " Purgatoria " 
leaves behind the demons, conducts penitents 
through some suffering, it is true, but for their 
good. A blessed hope is always before them. In 
Paradise the poet, rising on a chariot, instructed by 
Beatrice, sees the earth fade in the distance below 
him. Upward they go, rising through the heaven 
of the moon, of the stars, etc., till they reach the 
tenth, the Empyrean Paradise, where the Father 
and Son are worshiped by the purified and sancti- 
fied spirits, who enjoy everlasting, unspeakable 
bliss. Dante had, indeed, been into the prison of 



350 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



the lost, but he had also been into the presence of 
God — the presence of God in Heaven. 

There are some persons whose companionship is 
as delightful as the sweetest music. It is, indeed, 
hard to return from fairy-land, to drudge and delve 
in common earth, away from the pleasant things 
that will intrude upon our minds ; and half-de- 
spairingly we begin to wonder if, after all, we have 
not been dreaming. But we live in the world yet ; 
we have a work to do, and duties to perform ; and 
our future depends upon our present. Everything 
is for something ; a kind hand guides all, and all 
for the best ; so let us submit to the inevitable, and 
wait and hope for the fullness of time. Yet the 
good Lord will not blame us, I think, for enjoying 
the highest gifts he ever bestows upon our race. 

I enjoy my vacation ! It is such a delight to be 
free and do what we please ; no nutst in the way 
from morning to night. But, after all, if our life 
passed in that way, it would be a failure. We were 
made to work, to be anxious, to strive, and fail ; 
and then to resolve and determine to win and put 
our whole life into action, striving and continuing, 
and are never satisfied with the effort. Many 
workers do not seem to accomplish anything after 
a long life of effort ; but does anyone know whether 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



351 



lie has accomplislied anything worthy ? In the or- 
dinary acceptation of the term we know what the 
word means, but that is superficial. Is not a great 
thing that which gives the greatest and best re- 
sults ? But what do we know about results ? Very 
little. They maybe far off, hidden, obscure. They 
may be like tiny rills, or wandering drops of water, 
silently seeking their way down through the damp 
soil, under the stones or among the roots of forest 
trees, to come out again, perhaps, far away, lost to 
the eye of man, unheard of, forgotten, till their 
path is shown by the destroying avalanche ; or in 
giving life to a million of flowers, that spread 
beauty and fragrance over the spring landscape ; 
or, perhaps, a drop upon the dying unfortunate, or 
the tear of pity in the eye of love, making giver 
and receiver equally happy. At the great day of 
awakening to come we only can see what was great 
and profoundly good ; so let us be slow to judge. 

God pity the weak man who, having no strength 
to combat with the world, in his failure becomes a 
miserable victim to be laughed at and to die, when 
there is a heaven for him, even if he died unblest. 

The passages of Scripture have been set down 
for the year. I intend to make them a study. It 
will be pleasant to think that you will do the same. 



;52 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 



After the Gospels, Romans is the great book of 
the Bible — full of truth, full of mystery. It has 
been studied a great deal. Many try to disbelieve 
it, or explain it away — a great trouble to some 
modern students — but I believe it entirely, though 
in some places hard to understand. It must be 
heard, becatise it is written by the wisest of the 
apostles, upon the deepest topic, of the most pro- 
found of all subjects. 

Some persons never realize the importance of 
that divine affection — no, not an affection, but 
something dearer, mightier, whose results continue. 
Love — it is a deep subject ; it enters the inner 
.sanctuary of our souls, and it will hold its place 
through all eternity. Love is a strong silken or 
golden cord, that sometimes draws us or binds one 
soul to another, when mutually agreeable to each 
other. It cannot be crushed by advice or force ; it 
comes without warning or notice ; all our other 
mental powers are weak and yield to it. We do not 
resolve to love, but we love. One finds himself a 
captive, and in chains, but they are gentle fetters. 
I think the highest and strongest love is when one 
is willing to sacrifice himself for the good of the 
object of his affections. When the soul begins to 
obey the divine influence, the pure become better, 
and should be happy. To love some good object is 



EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 353 

to rise tip into a happier world. The pain of unre- 
quited love may cause anguish, but the victim has 
heard the deeper music of his being ; and the 
strong heart that has loved, though in vain, is liv- 
ing a higher life. The man who has never loved 
will be always lacking in many manly qualities ; in 
a certain sense, blind and deaf. 

A pure soul may not always find a response, and 
the regret may be like a sea of gall ; but the love 
he has felt may add a new cord to the harp of his 
soul, and a deep minor, but melodious, music will 
never cease its thrill. This may be bitter and an 
injury in the battle of life, but he has added a new 
capacity to go with him through life eternal. 

" I hold it true, whate'er befall, 
I feel it when I sorrow most, 
'Tis better to have loved and lost, 
Than never to have loved at all." 

There are few cases in which a true love will die ; 
but I can conceive how one might continue to 
cherish in his secret soul the most intense and 
deathless love in regard to one whom he can never 
name in public. Love is the mightiest power in 
the universe. Every kind act has been produced 
by it. It caused the divine work in the beginning. 
It opened the door of Paradise. It redeemed us on 
Calvary. " God is love." 



&)cttact from (^00a^ on @^ffreb 

LET us think a moment upon what poetry is, 
and how we should read it. 
If these poems we are studying are worthy of 
their name and origin, they have been coined out 
of the writer's very soul ; melted down in the cruci- 
ble by the burning intensity of his thoughts. The 
dross has been repeatedly burned off, and in the 
intensity of his search he has looked down into 
depths unseen at first. Much that was once good 
has fallen away before new-found jewels. In fact, 
the reader knows but a tithe of what has glowed in 

his vision. 

If so, we should read slowly and studiously, striv- 
ing to discover the deeper meaning of the sentence, 
sometimes difficult. Thoughtless rapidity is ab- 
surd. Can a man comprehend in a fraction of a 
second the keen conceptions of a gifted person 
growing out of hours of study. We should read, 
reflect, re-read, and the half-concealed beauties will 
yield to our search. 

The person who reads poetry chiefly for the plot 



EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 355 

should read prose. A very rapid, hasty reading 
will be like riding through fields presenting trans- 
cendent landscapes with a race horse and with 
blinded eyes. 

If we read our author over and over studiously, 
we shall find he will improve every time. 

Tennyson was self-conscious in his writings, and 
inspired his own utterances, "singing his own 
score by note." He began as a metrical artist, 
feeling that "poetry is an art, and the cJiief of the 
fine arts." " He devoted himself, with the eager 
spirit of youth, to mastering this exquisite art," 
" and wreaked his thoughts upon expression for 
the expression's sake." 

His first volume began with " Claribel " and ended 
with the " Mermaid." 

Whatever might be said of the leading thoughts, 
the details were excellent. He who could not see 
beauty even in " Claribel " must be dull, and per- 
haps increasingly so in the other poems in the first 
volume. 

The great excellences were in the accuracy of 
his descriptions of nature, and the justice and origin- 
ality in his words and sentences, always just and 
never flat. If they contained no great thought, as 
some said, they were at least a step to something 
greater. 

Many admired the first volume. Many men of 



356 EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 

severe tastes were repelled. Not a few pieces were 
omitted by the author in succeeding' editions. 

The second volume (1832-3) began with the 
" Lady of Shalott," and indicated a decided progress. 
One of his reviewers remarked, " a more original 
and beautiful volume of minor poetry never was 
added to our literature." " His manner was there 
clearly developed" and well pruned. The metres 
were delicious. In the rhythm every word was 
needful and studied. " The force of metrical ele- 
gance made its way and carried everything before 
it." " From that day Tennyson took his place at 
the head of the art school y 

Among the marked pieces are " The Lady of 
Shalott," " Oenone," " May Queen," etc. 

Mr. Stedman said " more dewy, fresh, pathetic, 
native verse had not been written since the era of 
' As You Like It.' " 

This volume accomplished an auspicious work for 
ten years, and is to-day highly valued. His blank 
verse had here arrived at a high point of excellence. 
He enriched it by a style entirely his own. It will 
be found illustrated in two styles, one in the " Idyls 
of the King" — his own invention from study of 
Homer — the other in the "Gardener's daughter," 
" Dora," " Godiva," etc. Ulysses is unapproached. 
We will only further name as among the beautiful 
poems, " Break, Break, Break," " Flow down Cold 



EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 357 

Rivulet to the Sea," and, purest and highest, " St. 
Agnes " and " Sir Galahad." 

The beautiful pieces in the second volume are so 
many and so excellent that a critic would almost 
feel obliged to repeat the entire number. I will 
only recommend the careful reading — 710, the 
studying — of every one with an effort to enter into 
the feeling of the writer himself. 

The time came when our author seemed to feel 
that he must do something orreater. 

About 1847 "The Princess" was produced. The 
theme and the story never had any existence before 
it came out of his brain. I w^ould prefer, since it was 
his invention, that he had saved it from anach- 
ronisms and apparent impossibilities, not pleasing 
to all readers. But, however that may be, it is a 
delightful story, full of great, noble thoughts, and 
fascinating beyond many of his works. The tour- 
nament scene is thought to be the most vehement 
and rapid passage in all Tennyson's poetry. 

The five melodies, " Sweet and low," " The splen- 
dor falls on castle walls," etc., are the finest group 
of songs produced in our century. 

The " Princess " had a purpose — it was a picture 
of woman's struggle. 

In 1850 — 40 years old — appeared "In Memo- 
riam," the most characteristic of Tennyson's works. 
It is a poem of the century. It contains the wisest 



358 EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 

reflections upon life, death, and eternity, expressed 
in words of almost unequaled beauty. No one can 
ever attempt a poem upon a similar model with- 
out ruin and disg-race to himself. Some great 
elegiac pieces by other masters have been pro- 
duced, but tJiis is superior to all. 

The metrical scheme, though disliked by some, is 
no doubt a grand success. It is a British poem, a 
steady, yet varying funeral march. 

Objections have been raised — of course it would 
be so if it had merit. It is said it presents a con- 
fusion of religion and skepticism, attempts to recon- 
cile faith and knowledge, and to blend Dante and 
Lucretius. In many instances parts greatly admired 
by some are condemned by others, both, perhaps, 
competent judges. 

No poem of the author finds so many admirers 
among educated readers. One significant thing is 
that the interest and admiration increases with 
every reading. 

In 1850, having become the poet laureate, he had 
occasion to write " The Ode." It is a great poem, 
but not his greatest production. He did not succeed 
so well in presenting the events of the day. His 
nature was brooding, and he longed to commune 
with the mysteries of beauty and truth. 

" Maud " is a combination of " strength and weak- 
ness," and not a general favorite. It has many pas- 



EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 



359 



sages of marvelous beauty, combined with some 
weak and unmeaning, while the whole seems with- 
out much design or general thought. It was a pity 
to waste so much beauty on so poor a plot, if there 
was any. 

Everyone admires " The Brook." 

" I chatter over stony ways, 
In little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles." 

lingers in our mind long after it is read. 

To point out even most of the poems of excel- 
lence would be to name the entire number. We 
must reserve our remaining time for the one greater 
work. 

" The Idyls of the King," though produced at dif- 
ferent times, are, in the end, all cemented together, 
forming now one whole, and that is the great epic 
of chivalry — the presentation of Christian knight- 
hood as it should be. Not like " Paradise Lost" — 
it was never so lofty, but never presenting long, 
prosaic passages. 

It is doubtful if Tennyson began the ten poems 
with the plan of the completed whole. His first 
piece was near the end of the whole structure, and 
might have been the beginning or end of the idyl, 
but it grew upon him. Piece after piece was pro- 



36o EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 

duced, and, in the end, all were arranged to form a 
whole, and the abrupt breaches were filled by some- 
thing new. 

The " Princess " was indeed entirely a creation of 
his own, but the black-letter compilations of Sir 
Thomas Malory were an exhaustive storehouse for 
him to draw from. However tame or disconnected 
they might have been in their original source, in 
his hands a marvelous change was wrought, and the 
whole seems to have now unity of thought, having 
passed though a magical transformation. I remem- 
ber hearing a scholar, then occupying a pulpit in a 
New England city — twenty years ago — speak en- 
thusiastically of the " Morte de Arthur," as having 
a strong Homeric flavor, and then cited a passage 
that he thought had many of the characteristics 
of the Greek language. 

The idyls are varied, and all have their own 
beauty. There is no barbaric brutality, the moral 
of all is good, and the tendency is to make better 
men and women. 

In my opinion, in the words of a valued critic, 
" There is nothing finer in modern verse than the 
interview between Arthur and his remorseful wife ; 
nothing loftier than the passage beginning : 

' Lo ! I forgive thee as Eternal God 
Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I loved ? 



EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 361 

golden hair, with which I used to play, 
Not knowing ! O imperial-moulded form. 
And beauty such as never woman wore, 
Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee. 

1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine, 

But Launcelot's; nay, they never were the King's.'" 

The beginning of " Guinevere " is not so interest- 
ing ; it could not be, but it was necessary to build 
the sequel upon, but in the closing is the climax of 
the poet's work. Nothing more noble, nothing 
more pure, loving, or holy can be found though we 
search far and wide. 

Among the later poems is " Enoch Arden," about 
which I will not stop to write, for he who has not 
read " Enoch Arden " is only to be commiserated. 

" The Dramas " are his least successful continued 
poems. " Queen Mary " and " Harold " have been 
variously and severely criticised. Many thought 
Mary Tudor's history a monotonous and continued 
distress. The suffering finds no vent in action. 

Some parts of the drama were well executed and 
contain masterly portraits. 

" Harold " was a more dramatic subject, but the 
dramas were, on the whole, coldly received. 

It is difficult for contemporaries to judge of an 

author with complete justice. Various social and 

local relations come in with their prejudices. The 

works of great artists are rarely appreciated for a 

23 



362 EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 

generation or more after they have passed away. 
Good judges and the general public sentiment seem 
to regard our author as very near the summit of 
perfection for our generation. His works are al- 
most artistically perfect in rhythm, beauty of 
thought, freedom from everything vulgar or offen- 
sive. They invite us to something noble and ele- 
vating, leaving no stain behind. 

There is no designed obscurity in his poems 
feigning profundity, but, while planned and ex- 
pressed in great simplicity, they have in reality 
more depth and subtlety than many others we are 
hardly able to understand. 



(^00ap on ^o^n "Ktate. 

THE subject of this paper was born in apart- 
ments connected with a stable, at the sign of 
the Swan-and-Hoop, Finsbury Pavement, London, 
on 29-31 of October, 1797. His father was head 
ostler in a livery stable, and his mother was the 
daughter of his father's employer. He thus in- 
herited no genius, and was not favored by the cir- 
cumstances of his childhood for the development 
of his poetic talents and tastes, but they grew spon- 
taneously, in spite of the surroundings that we 
would think were unfavorable to the production of 
a poet, and a lover of beauty in all its forms, with 
a marvelous imagination that could develop one 
fair object into a numberless family, each an im- 
provement on the first ; but of that we shall see 
more in the sequel. 

We have no time to speak of his family, further 
than to say that he had a brother George, who 
eventually came to America, and one, always called 
Tom Edward, who died early, and a sister, Frances 
Mary. 

There is reason to believe that his parents were 
above ordinary people, and had many admirable 
qualities. 



364 ^SSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 

The mother's passion for her first-born son was 
devotedly returned by him. It is said she was sick 
once when he was a child, and was ordered to be 
kept quiet by the physician, when he insisted on 
keeping watch at her door with an old sword, and 
allowed no one to go in. 

The boys were sent to school to the Rev. John 
Clark at Enfield, father of Cowden Clark. The 
school was of good repute, with pleasant aspect 
and surroundings. It was once the residence of a 
West India merchant, and stood in a spacious gar- 
den. 

His father died in April, 1804. His mother mar- 
ried within twelve months, but the marriage was 
unhappy. There was soon a separation, and no 
mention was afterward made of his stepfather. 

The family were then located with their grand- 
mother, in Church Street, Edmonton. She left, in 
the end, a considerable estate to the younger family. 
Between the Enfield school and his mother, the next 
four or five years were spent (1806- 18 10) in com- 
fort and pleasantness. 

As to his characteristics at school, Ch. Cowden 
Clark wrote : " He was a favorite with all. Not 
the less beloved was he for having a highly pug- 
nacious spirit, which, when roused, was one of the 
most picturesque exhibitions off the stage." His 
brother Tom's ears having once been boxed by an 



ESS A Y ON JOHN KEA TS 365 

usher, " John rushed up, put himself into the re- 
ceived posture of offense, and, it was said, struck 
the usher, who could have put him in his pocket. 
His passion at times was almost ungovernable, and 
his brother George, being considerably taller and 
stronger, used to hold him down by main force, 
laughing when John was in one of his moods, and 
was endeavoring to beat him." " He was not 
merely the favorite of all, like a pet prize-fighter 
but his highmindedness, his utter un- 
consciousness of a mean motive, his placability, his 
generosity, wrought so general a feeling in his 
behalf that I never heard a word of disapproval 
from anyone, superior or equal, who had known 
him." 

These exhibitions of his boyish moods were soon 
over. They showed the intensity of his feelings, 
that ever continued, but they were guided in other 
directions. So, " in the last few terms — that is, in 
his fourteenth and fifteenth years — all the energies 
of his nature turned to study. He became sud- 
denly and completely absorbed in reading, and 
would be continually at work before school-time in 
the morning and during play-hours in the after- 
noon, and could hardly be induced to join in the 
school games." 

At this time he won easily all the literature 
prizes in the school, and, in addition to his proper 



366 ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 

work, imposed on himself such voluntary labor as 
the translation of the whole " ^neid " in prose. 
He read books of history, travel, fiction, etc., but 
the books he read with the greatest eagerness were 
those of ancient mythology, Lempriere's " Diction- 
ary," Spence's "Polymetis," and Took's "Pantheon, 
that he almost learned by heart. There was thus 
in him a marked change, but it was an omvard step 
in the progress of his growth. 

February, 1810, his mother died in his fifteenth 
year. It is said " he sat up whole nights with her, 
in a great chair ; would suffer nobody to give medi- 
cine, or even cook her food, but himself " ; and he 
read novels aloud in her intervals of ease. 

" Bitterly he mourned for her, and he gave way 
to such impassioned and prolonged grief — hiding 
himself in a nook under his master's desk — as to 
awaken the liveliest pity and sympathy in all who 
saw him." 

We can discover here the further indications of 
that strong, independent spirit that afterwards re- 
called John from the honorable, but unpoetical, pro- 
fession of a surgeon to be one of the favored of 
the muses. 

His grandmother, about this time, left to the 
Keats children a considerable estate, intrusted to 
Mr. Richard Abbey and Air. Rowland Sandell, to 
be in time given to them. 



ESSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 367 

We do not know who proposed it, but in the 
sequel John Keats, at the end of the year 18 10, 
being then fifteen years old, was bound out as an 
apprentice for five years to a surgeon at Edmonton 
named Hammond. 

His passion for literature and the pleasures of 
the imagination was not to be stifled, and whenever 
he could spare any time from his work, he plunged 
back into his school occupations of reading and 
translating. What a pity it was that such a great, 
gifted soul should be doomed to waste those five 
years ! He was for a time in the habit of walking 
over to Enfield to see his friend, Cowden Clark. 
Here, for the first time, he saw Spenser's " Faerie 
Queene." It was a new world to him, and through 
it he went "ranging with delight." Many per- 
sons by the reading of this grand old book have 
found that they had a poetic spirit. " It was the 
' Faerie Queene ' that awakened his genius." In 
that " fairy land he was enchanted, breathed in a 
new world, and became a new being." " Enam- 
oured of the stanza, he attempted to imitate it, and 
succeeded." This was done shyly at first, and not 
till two years later (181 5) was anything shown to 
Cowden Clark. " Though born a poet, he was 
ignorant of his birthright until he had completed 
his eighteenth year." 

In 1 8 14, a year before the expiration of his term 



368 ESSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 

of apprenticeship, he had quarreled with Mr. Ham- 
mond, and, apparently, had no further connection 
with him. The facts in relation to this change are 
not known. 

About nineteen years of age, he went to live in 
London and continue the study of his profession, 
about the year i8i4(?). 

July, 1 8 1 5 , he passed with credit his examination 
as licentiate at Apothecaries' Hall. His heart was 
not in the work, but he was no bungler. The prac- 
tical responsibilities of the profession weighed upon 
him. Voices were luring him along other paths. 
He declared to Cowden Clark his own sense of his 
unfitness for the profession, saying : " The other 
day, during the lecture, there came a sunbeam 
into the room, and with it a whole troupe of 
creatures floating in the ray ; and I was off with 
them to Oberon and fairy-land." 

Remembering what passed through his mind at 
the time of his last operation, he never took up the 
lancet again. 

He now formed intimacies with young men of 
literary tastes. His verses had improved, and were 
not kept with the same secrecy ; and some attracted 
notices of writers of mark and standing. 

About the winter of i8i6 and 1817, the time of 
his coming of age, he conceived the purpose of de- 
voting himself to a literary life. It is supposed 



ESSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 369 

Mr. Abbey, who managed the Keats estate, was not 
pleased with the idea ; apparently he could not pre- 
vent it. 

He continued his studies for awhile in London, 
popular among- his fellow-students, and habitually 
gentle and pleasant. His devotion to poetry pre- 
vented his having any other taste, or indulging in 
any vices. 

He despised Pope and Byron, but delighted in 
Spenser, caring, in poetry, more for the beauty of 
imagery, description, and simile than for the inter- 
est of action and passion. 

It is not easy to state what are his earliest poems, 
but the " Lines in Imitation of Spenser " were 
early. And he approved himself a poet, indeed, 
by his lines, "On First Looking into Chapman's 
Homer." 

In 1 816 Keats became acquainted with Leigh 
Hunt, who afterwards exercised great influence 
over him and his poetry, but not always good. 

Among the persons he often met and enjoyed in 
those days were John Hamilton Reynolds, James 
Rice, Shelley, Hayden [artist]. Miss Willis, and 
J. Severn [artist]. 

In his third winter in London he was fairly 
launched in a world of art and letters, and in 
familiar intimacy with some of the brightest spirits 
of the times. The power and the charm of genius 



370 ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 

were already upon him. It is said " the character 
and expression of his features would arrest even 
the casual passenger in the street." " A small, 
handsome, ardent-looking youth, the stature little 
over five feet, figure compact and well-turned, 
with the neck thrown eagerly forward, carrying a 
strong, shapely head, set off by thickly-clustering 
brown hair, the features powerful, finished, and 
mobile " ; mouth wide, combative, and sensitive, 
forehead not high, but broad, eyes light brown. 

Hayden said : " Keats was the only man I ever 
met who seemed conscious of a high calling, except 
Wordsworth. 

" He was in his glory in the fields. The hum- 
ming of a bee, the sight of a flower, the glitter of 
the sun, seemed to make his nature tremble. Then 
his eyes flashed, his cheeks glowed, and his mouth 
quivered." 

Mrs. Proctor spoke of the impression of his eyes 
" as of those of one who had been looking on some 
glorious sight." 

He was not always at ease in the company of 
women, but with men he was pleasantness itself, 
quiet and abstract, brilliant and voluble, by turns, 
but unaffected. If the conversation did not inter- 
est him, he was apt to draw apart, sit in the win- 
dow, and " peer into vacancy." 



ESS A Y ON JOHN KEA TS 371 

There at this time existed a literary atmosphere 
such as England has not since known. 

Advised by his friends, he was induced to pub- 
lish a volume — his first — and it appeared in 
March, 1817, at the age of about twenty-two years. 

We would call him a very young man, and by 
examination it will be seen that he had not yet ar- 
rived at that state of poetical excellence which he 
afterwards reached. His own peculiar style was 
not yet adopted, but his character as a poet began 
to show itself. He differed both from Wordsworth 
and Shelley. 

His grammar was not always correct, and his use 
of English was not to be approved in some in- 
stances. 

" It was his instinct to love and interpret nature 
more for her own sake, and less for the sake of 
sympathy which the human mind can read into 
her, with its own workings and aspirations." 

" There is, obviously, a great immaturity and un- 
certainty in all these outpourings — an intensity 
and emotion out of proportion. Yet in this first 
book there is much that the lover of poetry will 
always cherish." 

Passages that go to pieces under criticism may 
have about them a spirit of beauty that charms us. 
He believed that poetry should not strive to en- 



372 ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 

force particular doctrines, nor enter the field of 
reason ; but its proper aim is the creation of 
beauty. 

Keats sought poetic liberty. The volume was 
regarded by his publishers as a failure. 

During the period from April, 1817, to May, 1818, 
Keats was busy on his longest poem. Much of his 
time was spent in various places out of London, 
for reasons of health largely. Many of his familiar 
friends were met, and mutual expressions of inter- 
est and approval were made. Every day he 
worked upon " Endymion " ; fifty lines were pro- 
duced. 

He had learned by his hard experience, and 
had corrected many of the imperfections of his 
previous works. 

His failure did not break his spirit. Moved by 
his own good sense, and by the advice of his 
friends, he devoted himself to study, with refer- 
ence to general improvement and the perfection of 
his greater work. He was not perfectly successful, 
but it was a grand school for him, and his struggles 
and failures were stepping-stones to the temple of 
fame, though it was at a great cost. 

" Endymion " was published, and this is an ex- 
tract from its preface : " It is just that this young- 
ster should die away ; a sad thought for me, if I 



ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 373 

had not some hope that, while it was dwindling, I 
may be plotting and fitting myself for verses fit to 
live." 

After " Endymion " was published, with Mr. 
Brown he started on a northern tour for health 
and recreation. On foot, in a suitable garb, they 
went over those parts of Western Scotland now 
ordinarily visited by tourists — no doubt with great 
pleasure and profit, in some respects. They started 
June 22, 1 8 18, and he returned by boat from 
Cromarty August 9th. We cannot, for want of 
time, give the details of this journey. Probably 
Keats did not admire Scotland very much, and 
sometimes his strength was not equal to the de- 
mands of the journey. " From the experiences in 
this tour are traced the first symptoms of his hered- 
itary tendency to consumption, and his throat 
trouble never really, for any length of time, left 
him afterwards. 

On his return from the north he found that very 
severe attacks had been made upon him by Black- 
wood's Magazine and the Quarterly Reviezv. He was 
spoken of as " Johnny Keats," as an " amiable bard- 
ling," a " Cockney Poet." The worst part of the 
Keats review was in its personalities : " Go back to 
the shop, John ; stick to plasters, pills, ointment 
boxes, etc." Besides, much of the material for 
the criticisms was dishonorably obtained from a 



374 ^SSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 

friend (Bailey), under the promise of confidence 
that it should not be used to his disadvantage. 
The attack is believed to have been written by 
Lockhart himself. If so, it was a felon's stroke on 
his part. 

The Quarterly article on " Endymion " followed 
in an equally contemptuous strain, the writer pro- 
fessing to have been unable to read beyond the first 
canto, or make head or tail of that. 

Many expressions of friends and articles in the 
public prints came to his assistance. During these 
attacks he was living under another far more 
heartfelt trouble. His brother Tom was very sick, 
and he, as a brother and a nurse, tenderly watched 
over him until December, when his end came. 
Keats was then invited to live with one of his 
friends (Brown), and as soon as he could control 
his afflicted spirit, he began his poetic work again. 
The special topic was " Hyperion." He had al- 
ways sought to keep clear of the passion of love, 
"lest it should burn him up." He apparently 
intended never to marry. Once he wrote : " The 
roaring of the wind is my wife, and the stars 
are my children ; the mighty abstract idea of 
beauty in all things. I have stifled the more di- 
vided and minute domestic happiness." " I feel 
more and more every day, as my imagination 
strengthens, that I do not live in this world 



ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 375 

alone, but in a thousand worlds. Alone, shapes 
of epic greatness are around me. Tragedy conies 
sweeping by. I wander like a lost soul upon the 
Stygian bank, I melt into the air with a voluptu- 
ousness so delicate that I am content to be alone." 
That may serve as a picture of his natural poetic 
spirit. But his hour came ; perhaps few men 
are safe when exposed. Soon after his removal 
to Brown's house he became acquainted with Miss 
Fanny Brawne, and after a little while was com- 
pletely fascinated by her. For want of space, we 
must speak very briefly of this young lady. Suf- 
fice it to say that she had many personal attrac- 
tions, but some of his friends thought she was no 
mate for him, either in heart or mind, and re- 
garded the attachment as unlucky. But the expe- 
rience of 6,000 years has shown that a third party 
can neither produce nor prevent a great love. 
Apparently, in regard to Keats, it was a case in 
which the passion was bounded by no time or 
circumstances. This was a time of untoward for- 
tunes for him. His brother George, whom he 
tenderly loved, had removed to America. 

The Scotch tour had overtaxed his strength and 
revealed a deadly enemy, Tom had died almost in 
his arms, and upon this had come the gibes of the 
reviewers. 

Love, the fever in his blood, doubts or tanta- 



376 ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 

lizing rapture alternating, bereavement and antici- 
pated poverty, were too mucli for him, and he 
broke down. He could not work much, but he 
showed a brave face to the world, and such work 
as he did then, was at the very height of his 
powers ; it includes parts of Hyperion and the Eve 
of St. Agnes. 

He wrote poetry for the love of it. " I feel 
assured (he said) I should write from the mere 
yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, 
even if my night's labors should be burned every 
morning, and no eye should ever rest upon them." 

In the midst of his troubles one of his friends 
wanted to borrow money of him, and though he 
got it for him with great difficulty, it, apparently, 
was never repaid. 

"As his flesh began to faint in the service of 
poetry and beauty, his soul turned often with a 
sense of comfort towards the milder divinity of 
Death." 

Then, out of the mere yearning and fondness he 
had for the beautiful, he produced poem after poem 
that are among the treasures of the English lan- 
guage. 

In spite of his magnanimous reception of the 
Blackzvood and Quarterly attacks, as time went on 
he felt more and more his wounded pride and 
darkened prospects. It was a mean, cruel attack, 



ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 377 

without ground, as the sequel has proved, probably, 
for some real or supposed pique. The humble 
preface should have made them his friends, not his 
destroyers. 

He struggled manfully against the legion of 
troubles on every side, writing with all his excited 
energies, with greater evils before him, and some- 
thing dreadful in a most certain prospect. From 
the middle of August to the middle of October he 
was in the old cathedral city of Winchester, and 
they were the last good days of his life. He studied 
on Lamia, Otho, and the Eve of St. Agnes. 

The brightness of early autumn continued to 
sustain and soothe him, and then he made a vigor- 
our effort to rally his moral powers, and banish 
his morbid sensibilities. 

The die was cast for death, and in October, 
1 81 7, begins the melancholy closing chapter of 
Keat's history. " Of the triple flame which was 
burning away his life, the flame of genius, of 
passion, and of disease, — while the last kept 
smouldering in secret, the second burst forth every 
day more fiercely, and the first began from this 
time forth to sink." He tried various schemes 
to escape his coming despair. Among them was 
the writing of a play, but strangely it never 
came out. He commenced a poem in a new style, 



24 



378 ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 

" Cap and Bells," but it was in a strain alien to 
his nature. 

He was very skillful in concealing his troubles 
from his friends, but they began to discover that he 
had lost his cheerfulness. 

" Only the dreamer venoms all his days, 
Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve ; " — 

were among his cries of bitterness in those days. 

The wasting of his vital powers by latent disease 
was turning all his sensations and emotions into 
pain. Soon after January 28th came the first 
overt attack of fatal disease. 

Brown relates that one night " on entering the 
cold sheets, before his head was on the pillow, he 
slightly coughed, and I heard him say, That is 
blood from my mouth. Bring me the candle, 
Brown, and let me see this blood. After regarding 
it steadfastly he looked up into my face with a 
calmness of countenance that I can never forget 
and said, * I know the color of that blood, it is 
arterial blood — that drop of blood is my death 
warrant — I must die.'" 

A new volume, the immortal volume, containing 
Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of Saint Agnes, Hy- 
perion, and the Odes, soon made its appearance, 
and had a moderate sale. 

He had been warned not to risk the rigors of an 



ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 379 

English winter and made up his mind to seek a 
milder climate, but as a soldier marches up to a bat- 
tery, and, on September 19th, with Severn, a friend, 
he sailed for Naples, having, to pay his expenses, 
sold the copyrights of Endymion for £\oo. 

Let us now briefly consider some of his poems 
before we go to meet him in the old Roman 
capital. 

ENDYMION, 

the longest and, perhaps, one of the earliest of 
Keats' works, is worthy a candid examination. It 
has its imperfections and its beauties. He, doubt- 
less, made a great mistake in using words of his 
own coining the English-speaking world will never 
adopt — a dangerous vanity, as many authors have 
found to their sorrow. Toward the end of the 
composition the number of such words became less, 
till they almost cease. There were many boyish 
things he would, doubtless, have discarded in later 
years, both in language and in thought. 

Some of his love scenes were rather overwrought, 
even silly, but it must be remembered he was very 
young. 

With all the adverse criticisms others may see fit 
to make, there are many wonderful passages, al- 
most without their equals. What he chose to see 
in everything was the beautiful, and it continued to 
be his joy to the end. 



3 So £SSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 

It is a strange story that Sappho sang long ago, 
but of which we only know what she said " second 
hand." An old Grecian story, modified by a Gothic 
mind, and to enjoy it we must take it for what it 
is, — Grecian, mythologic, and untrue, as to facts, 
but valuable for its beautiful pictures and situations 
never found but in poetry. If we can give no 
freedom to the imagination, it will be useless to 
read Endymion. 

It is unfortunate that he could not have had time 
and leisure to review the work after his manner 
had become more mature (laughing at his critics, 
but learning from them), nevertheless, in it were 
the indications of the future poet, who would shine 
brighter for his suffering, 

LAMIA, 

a story of magic and mythology, has fewer defects 
in language than Endymion. Probably everyone 
who reads it, as it deserves, will feel a thrill of 
pleasure or pain that will not be forgotten for 
many days. 

ISABELLA, 

a tale of Bocaccio, adorned and amplified in a north- 
ern manner with tones of sentiment and colors of 
romance. 

The lines are not all of equal workmanship, but 
the scene is realized with unerring vision. The 
poet seems to be reaching his highest point. 



ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 381 

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 

is a story of times nearer to us, written when Keats 
was in his meridian. Its characters are men and 
women of to-day like ourselves. The story is of 
marvelous interest, and there hangs over it a 
charm, magical, almost supernatural, but always 
beautiful, suggestive, and real, and when it ends 
we are sorry there is not more. 

HYPERION 

was probably written after his tour to Scotland. 
The subject had been long in his mind. It was his 
purpose to " sing the Titanomachio or warfare of 
the earlier Titanic dynasty, with the later Olympian 
dynasty of the Greek Gods," particularly one epi- 
sode, the dethronement of the Sun God, Hyperion, 
and the assumption of his kingdom by Apollo. 
He intended to write a poem in ten books, but 
only the first and second and a fragment of the 
third have come down to us. He was an admirer 
of Milton, and doubtless Paradise Lost had much 
to do with the fragment. 

It was a Greek subject, on a peculiar Greek field, 
but he did not write in a Greek manner, though 
some of his passages are not far behind. 

" As when, upon a tranced summer night, 
Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, 
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by earnest stars, 
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir." 



382 ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 

" Though Keats sees the Greek world from afar, 
he sees it truly." 

It was a brave work he undertook. In the war of 
the Titans he had little to guide him except scraps, 
here and there, and no doubt he took some liber- 
ties which better Greek scholars — as such — would 
not have dared to do, but what would such have 
said of Milton if he had left to the world but two 
books of Paradise Lost ? 

Keats chose the subject probably for an oppor- 
tunity to paint marvelous pictures of terror and 
beauty, and he produced, so far as he went, one of 
the grandest poems in modern times, and if it had 
been completed it would have been the pride of all 
who speak our excellent language. 

MYTHOLOGY, 

It has seemed strange to some that Keats selected 
so often mythological subjects for his poems, and 
perhaps it would have been better if he had not, 
but there is to be found a good reason for the selec- 
tion. 

His imagination reveled in the region of beauti- 
ful things, and it would be natural for him to 
choose subjects in which he could have the broadest 
field and the freest wing. Some persons feel for 
the stories of Grecian mythology a strong disgust; 
they might say they were worse than childish, with 



ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 383 

not a shadow of truth. In one sense that is true, 
but there is something there, after all, for those 
who have eyes, adapted to the inspection. To the 
ignorant and uncultivated the Grecian mythology 
may be silly or offensive, but to poets it is poetry. 

The old Homeric deities had about them much 
that was gross and repulsive, but who can say those 
stories are not the struggles of poetic souls to 
express somewhat in figurative language the feel- 
ings borne into their souls by the sighs of distorted, 
upheaved mountains, dismal chasms, and riven 
rocks? What would be more natural than to 
attribute such results to Titanic forces. Not that 
they believed in Titans, but they were in the spirit 
to accept them. So these ancient moral and phy- 
sical monsters came from the rude poets and not 
from history or tradition. 

In later times, though still ancient, when men 
had become more cultivated, when much of the 
primeval rudeness had worn off, these old deities 
were largely dethroned, and a purer worship, or 
rather poetical feeling, had taken their place. Then 
the ever inquisitive imagination had filled the 
world with countless deities, though some of the 
old ones were there a kind of background. Then 
every hill, dale, forest or plain, the sea, rivers, and 
fountains had their beautiful inhabitants, as beauti- 
ful as the then existing state of poetical culture 



384 ^SSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 

could create. Some were bad, of course, but that 
was to be expected, for the Christ had not yet 
come. 

In early times, the poets — I mean those who sang 
because they could not keep silence — here found a 
field for the exercise of genius in which there 
seemed no limit. 

There Keats delighted to wander. 

A mere beautiful thought, or natural object, in 
his mind, was the beginning of a train of kindred 
or related thoughts, that constantly repeated them- 
selves, and a world of beauties came unbidden, 
seeking to be uttered in song. 

The stories of Endymion, Hyperion, and Lamia, 
are not true, but beneath every line was a truth of 
almost matchless beauty for those whose souls were 
open to poetry. 

Those whose spirits are still in their poetical 
chrysalis may well rest till the time of their waken- 
ing out of sleep. The man who knows no Greek or 
Italian or German would be a simpleton to deny the 
beauty of Homer, Dante, and Goethe. 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

There are about forty-four smaller poems. Some 
ot them are very beautiful, and all deserve to be 
read. 

" Otho the Great " is a tragedy with many good 



ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 385 

points, but it was not regarded as a great success, a 
thing not easily achieved since Shakespeare wrote. 
The " Cap and Bells " was still less fortunate. It 
was a falling off from the high point he had before 
reached, and the style, character, and peculiarities 
seemed unlike himself, and not in harmony with 
his spirit as shown in his other works. Perhaps 
it is just as well that it was never finished. 

THE RHYTHM 

of Keats was simple ; he did not ordinarily indulge 
in fanciful stanzas, and when we apply the rigid 
metrical scale, sometimes we may possibly suspect 
that there are imperfections. Perhaps, however, 
like his great successor, a line to him was as a strain 
in music, not dependent necessarily on the number 
of syllables, but upon the duration of time. Perhaps 
it is not true that all long syllables are exactly equal 
to two short ones, and his ear arranged them with 
an accuracy that may seem to us a fault. 

LITERARY PECULIARITIES. 

Time will not permit me to say much about the 
peculiarities of Keats' style. Stedman in his " Vic- 
torian Poets " made thirty-four references to him at 
least, and a few of them will be cited here. 

" Keats, the English apprentice, surrounded him- 
self with all Olympus' hierarchy, and breathed the 
freshness of Thessalian forest winds." 



386 £SSAV ON JOHN KEATS 

" Mrs, Browning read Greek for the music of its 
literature. As for Keats, he created a Greece and 
an Olympus of his own." It is said that Keats 
" begat the body of the idyllic Victorian school." 

" The art which was born with Keats and found 
its perfect work in Tennyson already seems faultily 
faultless" and over refined. 

He is said to be " the rarest and most intuitive 
master of the fastidious art." 

" He (Tennyson) began as a metrical artist — at a 
long remove, even, from that of so absolute an art- 
ist as was John Keats." 

"These constituents — technical finish and the 
revival of classical taste, — more fully developed by 
the exquisite genius of Keats, were to mark the out- 
ward features of English metrical literature during 
the period whose poets have been included in this 
review " (Victorian). 

" I do not hesitate to say that this epic (Lander's 
' Gebir ' ) as poetry, and as a marvelous production 
for the period and for Lander's twenty-two years, 
stands next to that unrivaled torso composed long 
afterwards, — the ' Hyperion ' of John Keats." 

Tennyson proved his kindred genius by his in- 
stinctive study of details in his immature verses in 
marked contrast to his fellows and every predecessor 
but Keats, that strong "excepted soul." 

" Paradise Lost " is the masterpiece of stately Ro- 



ESSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 387 

man syntax. " Hyperion " is the finest specimen in 
modern times. 

Had Keats lived — had he lived to gain the feel- 
ing of Morris, to pass from aspirations to attain- 
ments, and had his delicious poems been succeeded 
by others comparing with " Isabella " and the " Eve 
of St. Agnes " as " The Earthly Paradise " compares 
with " The Defence of Guinevere," then, indeed, 
the world would have listened to a singer, — 

' ' Such as it had 
In ages glad, 
Long ago." 

THE END. 

It is hoped this brief sketch of Keats will render 
the study of his works more interesting, but it is 
not easy to restrain our indignation at the cruelty 
with which he was treated by the reviewers, for, in 
fact, he was murdered. We might say he should 
not have regarded them if he felt they were wrong, 
but should go on working hopefully and await the 
verdict of time, remembering that literature and art 
are seldom fairly judged until another generation, 
but justice, though sometimes tardy, will surely 
come in the end. His soul was of no common fiber. 
A discord is unknown by some, but painful to 
others. With him " a thing of beauty is a joy for 
ever." The cords of his soul were delicately tuned 



388 ^SSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 

to cause delight or suffering. There had at last 
come upon him a triple suffering — disgrace, pros- 
pective poverty, and hopeless love — and he sank 
under their burden. 

What a loss has befallen the world ! If he had 
been blessed with that easy and long life enjoyed 
by Tennyson, what might we have seen ? He was 
not an artificial poet, but born such, and his and our 
hopes were blighted by the sneer of a man whom 
the world will despise if ever discovered. 

We left him some time ago on shipboard, bound 
for the milder climate of Italy, hoping her sunny 
skies would look gently upon his frail constitution. 
Let us now return to him. 

The Maria Crother sailed from London, Sept. i8, 
1817. Several of his best friends went with him as 
far as Gravesend. The voyage at first seemed to 
do him good, but it was long and tedious. They 
met with storms and calms on the way, tossing a 
long time in the channel, and did not arrive in 
the Bay of Naples till after four weeks, to which 
was added a quarantine of ten days. His effort 
to keep bright partly imposed on Severn, his com- 
panion, but on November ist he wrote to Brown, 
betraying the secret of his anguish. He said, 
" I can bear to die — I can not bear to leave her. 
O God ! God ! God ! Everything I have in my 
trunk that reminds me of her goes through me 



ESSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 389 

like a spear. I see — I hear her. O Brown, I 
have coals of fire in my breast. It surprises me 
that the human heart is capable of so much 
misery." 

Shelley, then in Italy, warmly renewed his invita- 
tion to come to Pisa, but his and Severn's plans were 
for Rome. Arriving there, they found lodgings in 
the Piazza di Spagna, in a house going up the steps 
to St'a Trinita dei Monti. Their food was poor, but 
Severn got a piano, and Keats was soothed by the 
music. Keats began to read " Alfieri," but dropped 
it at the words too sadly applicable to himself, 

" Misera me! solliero a me non restra 
Altro che '1 pianto, ed il pianto e delitto." 

A transient hope was followed by despair. Hem- 
orrhage followed hemorrhage on successive days — 
then came a fever. 

Severn was more than a brother to him, but was 
obliged to refuse one request for his good. In re- 
ligion he had been neither a believer nor a scoffer, 
but, admiring the Christian behavior of Severn, he 
acknowledged the power of Christian teaching, and 
asked his friend to read to him from " Holy Living 
and Dying," and strove to pass the remainder of his 
days in peace and constancy. 

They had few home comforts ; the outer world 
cared not for them. At one time they were in 
danger of a want of money, but just in time a re- 



390 ^SSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 

mittance came. He did not now expect to recover. 
He said once, " I feel the flowers growing over me," 
and gave his epitaph, " Here lies one whose name 
is writ in water." 

Tender and harrowing memories haunted all the 
after life of the watcher. We will not pursue the 
sad scene further, only to say that on the 23d of 
February, 181 8, death came. 

He was buried in the Protestant cemetery in 
Rome, near the pyramid of Caius Sestius, and there 
too rest Shelley and Severn, a place of pilgrimage 
for the Enoflish race forever. 



FortnigJitly Club, March ii, i8Si. 

AT the commencement of this discussion it must be 
clearly vinderstood that on m}^ part no attack is made 
upon the newspaper press itself, but an effort will be made 
to show some of the injurious effects of newspaper read- 
ing as we find it in practice. The gentlemen of the press 
are not to be blamed for the use others make of their 
labors — that is ordinarily beyond their control. 

In passing, let me say that the American press is justly 
regarded as one of the most important and effective agen- 
cies for the advancement of the public and private wel- 
fare. A republic could hardly exist without it, and should 
its regular visits cease, business would suffer a paralyzing 
shock, while the general intelligence and culture would 
mourn its loss. My limits will not permit me to enlarge 
on this view of the subject. 

It might naturally be expected that no moderate terms 
of condemnation would be used in regard to those articles 
or short items that, at times, make their appearance, tend- 
ing to foster crime — indirectly, at least — and which are 
subversive of the public morality, which every honest man 
is bound to cherish and defend. That vulgar, poisonous, 
and disgusting sheets, catering to a depraved appetite, and 
cultivating a love for low tastes, have been issued, we 
know to be true ; and if we could see the heart or inner 



392 



NE IVSPA PER READ ING 



life as clearly as we can material things, many a charred, 
desolate ruin, as a natural result, would be disclosed to 
our view. But we must add that these evils would follow 
from the perusal of any poisonous literature, and is, there- 
fore, not confined to periodicals. 

This is not, however, the aspect of the subject to which 
I intend to call your attention. An honorable class of 
men are not to be blamed for the misconduct of one per- 
son, over whom they have no control, and whose charac- 
ter and doings they condemn. I shall assume in this 
paper that the managers of the American newspaper press 
are, as a body, men of high character, as well as of culti- 
vation and intellectual strength, who ordinarily would be 
the champions of honor and purity, and would condemn 
in the strongest terms everything endangering the public 
and private morality. For this reason, no further notice 
will be taken of this feature of journalism, believing that 
the toleration of articles of doubtful character are in our 
day rare exceptions. But still we sometimes wonder if 
those gentlemen realize the mighty influence they wield, 
and we wish they would leave out a few things they see fit 
to introduce. 

What I more particularly desire to bring to your notice 
concerns the intellectual rather than the moral nature of 
man. There is an evil, not so obvious to the looker-on as 
that which concerns character, nor does it reduce a man 
to so low a level, but that, nevertheless, is worthy of our 
consideration. It is not the fault of the journal, but it is 
the unwise use of the same. We should avail ourselves of its 
advantages, not as an end, but as a means to an end — as a 
source from which to gain information that we can use in 
order to accomplish something else. For this purpose it is a 
great storehouse, well filled with material that we could 



NEWSPAPER READING 



393 



not obtain from any other source, gathered from all the 
land — even from all the world — by means of a compli- 
cated system, directed with great skill and at great cost. 
When our favorite daily comes it has the welcome look of 
a friend, who by his smiling face betrays the possession of 
good news. We can well spare a short time over it. We 
must read the telegraphic reports, the doings of legisla- 
tures and of Congress, more or less attentively ; also the 
city items, some general facts of all the world's doings, 
and such business articles as will help us during the day. 
If we want to buy or sell, or find a rent or a situation, or 
hire a clerk or servant, we may learn something to our 
advantage ; or, what is better, with a quick eye we can run 
over the paper, and see if there is anything there that 
will be of use to us, or, perhaps, interesting, and pass over 
the rest. The editor has furnished a great variety, not all 
for one person, but for the whole country ; and the wise 
man will select that which will be valuable to him, not al- 
lowing a silly curiosity to deprive him of his useful time in 
an attempt to read the whole. Thus far he has done well, 
and ought to have gained something that may be of use 
to him. 

If men would read in this way, there would be but one 
side to the subject under consideration here to-night, but 
there is much reason to believe that most persons read out 
of mere childish curiosity — not in search of anything, not 
finding anything. 

I have seen a man — it is true with a face almost devoid 
of expression — leaning over a city paper, apparently 
reading everything from the name to the last period. 
Very probably he saw nothing in it, after all. As a sample 
of another class, you have seen a man, possibly a little 
older, and a person of leisure, read paper after paper, hour 
25 



394 NEWSPAPER READING 

after hour, but all the time with a face dull and sleepy. 
If he had been in search of something that he might make 
use of, it would have been well, but it was merely to pass 
the time. How strange that in this wonderful world time 
should hang heavy on any person ! As he reads along 
nothing lightens up his eye, tmless, perhaps, he comes 
across the account of a murder, a fraud, or accident ; and 
then he soon relapses into his former state of temporary 
idiocy. If this were only for one day or week, it might not 
be so bad ; but when it is the practice from year to year, 
it becomes a dreadful abuse of the human intellect, that is 
capable of such exalted uses. 

We have all heard the story of the countryman who for 
the first time sat down to the dining-table of a well-kept 
city hotel. At the sight of the bill of fare he was be- 
wildered. Supposing, in his simplicity, he was expected 
to eat everything therein presented, did his best. We 
have also seen men who, it would seem, tried to accom- 
plish the same task, but not from a like error, but because 
their low animal tastes prompted them — in short, he was 
a gourmand. It is incredible what an amount of abuse our 
innocent stomachs can be subjected to, and yet that the 
owners should live. We are all familiar with such persons, 
who, at last, must settle the account by enduring a legion 
of ills that are the natural consequence. This is one of 
the many compensations in nature. 

I feel a certain amount of self-condemnation in compar- 
ing anything possible in literature to the examples set us 
by the baser nature of man ; but in the newspaper read- 
ing of some men there is a practice not unlike the dining 
of the country youth. The publishers have, like good 
hosts, spread a table with a great variety ; things substan- 
tial to nourish us for work, things delicate and savory to 



NEWSPAPER READING 



395 



please the palate ; they give us side-dishes and dessert ; 
some things are likely to be poor, or unripe, or it may be 
particularly disagreeable to some peculiar people, but there 
is a variety, and every man may hope to find something 
to his taste ; withal, in the headings is a bill of fare from 
which he can select. Many readers begin at the top, and, 
without using their judgment or making selections, read 
through the entire bill. 

What a wicked abuse of our intellectual stomachs ! 
Look over the contents of ordinary daily papers, and think 
of devouring all or a large part of that heterogeneous 
mass, when, in most instances, no part has much, if any, 
connection with any other part, or relation to any condi- 
tion of our being. Is it possible to digest such a mass ? 
I know nothing about the mental gastric juice, but the 
brain ought to refuse such nourishment. Is it not a won- 
der that these misguided persons, after a few years of 
ofEending, are not all occupants of institutions for imbe- 
ciles or madmen ? 

By one reading in this way, what has been gained? 
Very little ; dim impressions of a multitude of things ; 
fog ; facts only half understood, and nearly all to be for- 
gotten in a day. What one retains the longest is that 
which was the most exciting or impressive at the time, 
such as accounts of crimes or disasters — a kind of ingath- 
ering that makes tis poorer. Good things were there, but 
they were only half comprehended, and are left covered 
deep with impressions of no use — mere trash. 

All do not waste their time in this way, but many do 
year after year, and deserve to be called newspaper glut- 
tons. Some may say : " It is their own business, and if 
they choose to use their time in that way, let them do so ; 
they, perhaps, have nothing else to do." True, they have 



396 NEWSPAPER READING 

a perfect right to read what they please, but they could do 
something better. The world is full of good books, whose 
study would make a man greater and happier. 

There are other classes of periodicals — religious, scien- 
tific, and literary — some of which are of a high order of 
merit, but, from the nature of the case, not liable to the 
same evil consequences as those to which, ordinarily, secu- 
lar dailies and weeklies are subjected. 

A person continuing in this manner of reading would be 
confirmed in certain mental habits by no means favorable 
to his improvement or strength. Among them, it might 
be said that he would be without any definite object or 
plan, or clear understanding of what he passes over ; with- 
out continuous thinking or association of kindred topics or 
ideas ; without efforts to overcome anything difficult ; 
and would remember very little that passed through his 
mind. Whoever believes and appreciates this will not 
doubt its injurious consequences upon our habits of think- 
ing. 

Habits are produced by repetition. If we desire to have 
good habits, it will require effort, often severe and contin- 
ued. Bad habits, that we have no desire to cultivate, and 
that come upon us through ignorance or carelessness, 
nevertheless hold us with the same iron grasp. The first 
are helpers ; the others make us slaves. 

Let us now attempt to discover the effects of the habits 
referred to upon some of our important mental operations. 
This field is entered upon with no little hesitation, for I 
lay no claim to a knowledge of intellectual philosoph}^ — a 
subject pursued by comparatively few, not because unin- 
teresting, but because of the difficulty in the study itself. 
Yet, as my line of thought taaturally passes along the out- 
skirts of that domain, it cannot be entirely avoided. Let 



NEWSPAPER READING 



397 



anyone for a moment turn his thoughts inward towards 
his thoughts, and if he does not choose to exert his will 
upon them, he will perceive a strange current ceaselessly 
pouring along, impelled by some power not understood. 
In some men — a few — these thoughts will be clear and 
distinct, having some relation to the subject that interests 
them at the time, or those to which they are compelled to 
direct their attention. But to a far greater number these 
thoughts will seem to have no connection or relation to 
each other. It is a strange procession — pictures of fields, 
houses, cities, persons ; things beautiful that make us 
start up with pleasure ; things hateful from which we 
would draw back. There are, as if frescoed upon a wall, 
acts of men we have known, wise and noble, who have 
done us good, whom we now long to see again ; any day of 
our life may come back to us again, gratifying us with our 
successes, or charging us with our faults, or, it may be, 
with wrongs, scalding us with the memories of our blun- 
ders, from the effects of which we are to-day suffering. 
There are also recollections we cannot throw off, and a 
hideous long list of things we have seen and heard — per- 
haps done — that we loathe, and would obliterate if it were 
possible, but we cannot. We can shut our eyes and stop 
our ears, but this mental current will run on through life. 
Some of the impressions are vivid ; many are distorted, 
dim, cloudy, entangled. We may control it for a time, but 
stop it permanently we never can. The possessors of a 
mind may think wisely or foolishly, but they must think 
forever. 

This is our mental store, gathered by experience, by 
reading, and by the chemistry of our own intellect. To 
some it is a treasure to be used, ready at hand ; to others 
it is a heterogeneous mass of good and bad, a hopeless 



398 



NEWSPAPER READING 



tangle, out of control ; to others it is a possession that 
cankers and poisons present and coming years. We seem 
to look upon it — ourself looking upon ourself . There is 
stored up what is to make us men or fools. Thought, if 
under control, may be the source of our highest happi- 
ness ; but if it yields to no bridle, it will be useless — it 
may become cruel as the rack from the inquisition. 

There are, fortunately, powers given us by which the 
ever-moving contents of our mental storehotise can be con- 
trolled, and important among them is recollection, or vol- 
untary memory. In proportion as this is ready and tena- 
cious, objects of thought or impressions can be gathered 
up, the valuable ones selected, bound together, and held 
obedient to our call. This valuable faculty is susceptible 
of improvement, and of decay (failure). It might be in- 
teresting to record some of its phenomena, but our pres- 
ent purpose will only call for a few statements in regard to 
its improvement or loss. 

We are told by those competent to instruct in intellect- 
ual science that there are practices tending to its cultiva- 
tion, and in this there is a remarkable agreement among 
our wise men. They say we should cultivate habits of 
fixed attention, and should never be satisfied to leave a 
thought until it is thoroughly mastered. Prest. Paten says 
" the soul can recall no more than it makes its own," § 306. 
We should read or study systematically, and associate kin- 
dred objects and facts by after-reflection ; we should prac- 
tice frequent repetition of what we read. 

Now I ask you to consider if the method of newspaper 
reading pursued by a large proportion of those who in- 
dulge continually in that habit is not just the reverse of these 
precepts ; as most read without care to understand, with- 
out any plan, and forget what they have read in a few 



NEWSPAPER READING 



399 



days. Do we not learn to remember by remembering, and as 
truly to forget by forgetting ? 

Closely connected with memory is another faculty that 
deserves consideration. I mean the further control of the 
mental current, or the fixing the mind upon a particular 
thought, and holding it there. " Not only can we arrest a 
particular thought .... but we can hold it with a 
firm grasp until we have examined it in all its parts, if it 
be complex, and in all its relations to other thoughts and 
things. In the power to do this men differ greatly, and he 
who can do it is capable of producing great results. It 
was in this power alone that Sir Isaac Newton said his 
genius consisted. . . ." * 

The value of superiority in this power cannot be over- 
stated. How is it that success is obtained in mechanics 
and engineering, in science, and in the professions, when 
brought to contend with difficulties? Is it not by examin- 
ing each truth or fact till thoroughly understood, and then 
holding the whole like a map before the eye of the mind, 
until the investigator sees all the relations and possible 
consequences ? He who can do this in the highest degree 
is the greatest man. This is the prerogative of a disci- 
plined mind ; this is genitis. 

Unthinking persons suppose that education is the acquire- 
ment of an amount of facts. They can see nothing in ma- 
thematics but rules for performing practical calculations ; 
in the natural sciences, nothing but aids in conducting 
manufactories and drug stores; or in the ancient languages, 
nothing but ability to read epitaphs and the terms of science ; 
yet the great value of a systematic education is the disci- 
pline, which might remain, if the facts should be forgotten. 



* Outline Hist., p. 140. 



400 



NEWSPAPER READING 



In these days of reading we are in danger of having too 
many facts and too little thinking. 

A man cannot acquire the will power over the opera- 
tions of his mind by allowing it to run on carelessly and 
without plan over what comes next in the order of a news- 
sheet, or in the fascinations of an exciting story, but by 
wisely selecting something that is worthy of his attention, 
and compelling his thoughts to dwell upon it till it has 
been mastered, and has become a part of himself. Surely 
you will not recommend the news-sheet for that ! 

How much better it would be to devote the greater part 
of one's leisure time for reading to some of the grand 
works of the great masters of literature and science ! If 
a person would make such a selection, read it over and 
over, think upon it, discuss its conclusions, question them 
if he choose, but drink in the author's spirit — it may cost 
time and labor, but in the end he will find that he has 
grown, that he has become a greater man. 

It is important to read the best things, and to read them 
in the right way. A large proportion of the books of to- 
day are not worth reading. Their authors are not capable 
of instructing, even in this superficial age. The value of 
a novel lies in presenting a correct picture of human na- 
ture, but the sentiments and incidents often introduced 
are not in accordance with anything that ever takes place 
in any real life. They may claim to write as artists, but 
true artists paint in accordance with nature. Men write 
not because they have thoughts crowding up and demand- 
ing utterance, but apparently as a pastime. Every man 
is, doubtless, good.for something, but all are not predes- 
tined to write books worth reading. 

It is claimed by some that newspaper reading is a great 
educator. That depends upon what you mean by educa- 
tion. If it is the filling of the mind with a great number 



NEWSPAPER READING 4©! 

of things, as you would fill a sack from a disarranged mu- 
seum, then you are right. But if by education is meant 
discipline, the preparing of the mind to think and act 
wisely and independently, what then ? Many of our 
dailies, as well as monthlies, have noble editorials and se- 
lections, worthy to be used as instruments of culture ; but 
how often do we see reporters who have been tolerated 
year after year in the use of what has been called " news- 
paper English " — a cousin to pigeon-English — using enor- 
mous phrases that "sound like firecrackers in an empty 
barrel," using great words for small ideas, a great noise, 
with nothing underneath ; not hesitating to spice their 
productions with slang words and phrases, which, as a 
rule, no clean man should tolerate. 

We sometimes meet a young person whose language is 
so perfect in its construction, whose Avords so well chosen, 
whose pronunciation is so faultless, and in a peculiar, un- 
affected, but soft, round tone, that we feel inclined to stop 
and listen, as to the first notes of a bird as it returns to us 
in spring-time. In what school was that learned ? 

The practice of reading weak things, and in a careless 
way, as practiced by many, must in time destroy the taste 
for all really substantial literatui^e and science. Many per- 
sons, apparently ignorant of the satisfaction of doing 
greater work, are content to creep along with childish 
things or unhealthful excitement. There is an intellectual 
feast spread out for them, but they do not see it. The 
vigorous youth, who has strengthened himself by manly 
exercises, feels a supreme delight in climbing rugged 
mountains, and is well rewarded by the pleasure of the 
effort, as well as by the sight of the soul-stirring scenery 
around him ; but some, with feeble knees and easily hur- 
ried breath, are content to grope along in tame pastures 
and misty valleys below. It is so with the mind. Those 



402 



NEWSPAPER READING 



who will not struggle to grasp and comprehend a great 
thought will not enjoy one ; but every newly-acquired 
power adds to the possibilities of happiness. A man may 
stop his ears and den}- that there is any beauty in an ora- 
torio or opera, or he may shut his eyes and declare that 
there is no such thing as a rainbow. A man may be will- 
ing to waste his glorious possibilities over senseless stories, 
and think there never were such persons as Dante, Goethe, 
Milton, Shakespeare, and a host of other great names. 
Well, it cannot be helped ; you never can compel a man to 
be great and wise and good. 

This is an age of wonderful opportunities for conquest 
in all the departments of knowledge. It is a day of great 
men in science. Books for convenient study are without 
number. But who reads good books ? Who is intelligent 
in regard to anything but the commonest topics of the 
times ? Some, surely — many — but a large proportion of 
men, in the cities and out, never study anything after 
leaving school ; seldom read anything worth reading. 
Go and examine, and you will find that a large majority 
have nothing more than the vaguest, most superficial 
notion of history, literature, and science. 

We can get a glimpse of what people read by exam- 
ing the reports of libraries. The classification of books 
drawn from the Hartford Library Association for the year 
1880 gives for: 

Fiction, . . . . .69 per cent. 



History, . 

Travel, . 

Biography, 

Arts and Sciences, 

Poetry and Drama, 

Theology, 

Miscellaneous, . 



6 
6 

6 



NEWSPAPER READING 403 

I am informed that the amomit of fiction here is about 
the same as in other similar libraries. This is a sad pic- 
ture, and not prophetic of great men and a wise com- 
munity. 

Fiction has a proper and useful place in our reading, 
but think of 69 per cent. ! If a man never reads a novel, 
he would do well to begin ; but if he makes fiction his or- 
dinary reading, he should at once turn his attention to 
something more worthy of his time. It is a pity to see 
anyone, especially a young person, given over to light 
fiction, without any possibility of finding pleasure in 
anything that requires effort. But this paper is already 
too long. 

I do not charge these evils upon newspapers, but such 
consequences are the natural result of the manner in 
which they are read. 

"We may be sorry for the newspaper English that 
sometimes occurs, and an occasional naughty thing that 
creeps in — most mysteriously, no doubt — but we cannot 
do without them ; we must read them daily and care- 
fully ; we must acknowledge our obligation to them, and 
defend them in their perfect freedom in everything con- 
sistent with honor, truth, and the public and private 
welfare. But, valuable as they are, they should not be 
permitted to push aside that other literature of which 
we have a noble inheritance — an inheritance selected by 
the common consent of mankind, with unerring skill, out 
of a vast number of books annually published, but most 
of which are soon forgotten. They may have cost the 
authors great labor — may have been written in their heart's 
blood — but the jury that decide upon the result are deaf 
to any considerations but real value 

Generation after generation this sifting process goes on. 



4^4 NEWSPAPER READING 

The world is found to be a good judge of genius, always 
dropping the least valuable, till the few that remain are 
better than gold. They are the real originals, of which 
most of the others are only imitations. We might almost 
say that they are inspired. 

If men would take advantage of these opportunities and 
draw their mental food from such great sources, choosing 
the good and casting away the bad, youth would be inore 
interesting ; manhood more useful and noble ; and old 
age, with its tottering step and dim eyes, in the very 
wrinkles on its face, would have a charm more lasting 
than youth, more attractive than beauty. 



Zv(xu(e. 



MR. TAYLOR'S LETTER TO HIS MOTHER. 

Dresden, November 30, 1873. 
Dear Mother : 

The last letter received from you was October 27th. My 
last was Dresden, November 23d. I went to my banker 
Saturday hoping to get some news from home, but there 
was nothing there. It was about Thanksgiving time and 
my thoughts had been looking westward — hope you had a 
good time. 

I kept up the anniversary, and a full number were pres- 
ent, but only in imagination; going back twenty years and 
more when all could be present. I thought of the great 
stir about the house for many days before ; the destruc- 
tion of chickens, and the manufacture of cakes and mince 
pies that were arranged along the shelves of the buttery 
in most tempting displa3^ Allen came up the night 
before, Gilbert had driven over in the morning about i 
p. M. Amelia and Adolphus after the sermon in the 
church come, and we are all there. In due time all are 
arranged around the table, in the center of which is a 
turkey, cooked brown and crisp, as few know how to do it, 
a blessing is sought from the Giver of all good, and we 
commence our feast. It seems impossible to dispose of 
the load on our plates, but where there is a will the way is 
easier ; and so wonders are accomplished. The remains 
of the turkey are removed and a chicken pie introduced 
into its place. We have eaten enough, but there is some- 



4o6 TRA VELS 

thing about the crust of that pie, — brown and flakey, — we 
cannot resist ; and then I always liked chicken pie ! we 
submit ; we cannot help it ; and resolve to take the conse- 
quences. After our plates are unloaded, for in spite of 
our qualms of conscience as to eating any, we have eaten 
all, and sometimes been up the second time ; the great pie, 
what is left of it, is retired ; now we have done — no, we 
are not done — pies are brought on : mince, apple, pump- 
kin, squash, cream, etc., etc., until they formed a complete 
circle on our plates ; an hour ago we thought there might 
be danger of eating too much, but now we have given up 
thinking, we resign ourselves to our fate — but those pies ! 
Can you believe it .' I have not seen a pie since I left New 
York! 

A great many good things are still behind, but we posi- 
tively refuse — we have done our best, — with the best 
things. A fire is burning in the parlor and there we sit the 
evening out, talking and making ourselves as happy as 
was possible. We had not accomplished any great things 
in the world ; we were not a wealth-gathering company, 
but we had had a thousand things to be thankful over, and 
all were there. In the morning we shall separate with 
the expectation of meeting again as each year returns. 
Twenty times and more have we met, and our gatherings 
have been pleasant, but time long ago began its changes. 
Amelia, quiet and thoughtful, left us first, and her faultless 
brother followed soon. I have no doubt they have been in 
company in Paradise more than twenty years, and I some- 
times think that during these many years among the holy, 
they will have become so bright and beautiful that we 
shall not be able to look at them, when we follow on. A 
few more gatherings and Adolphus ceases to come. From 
time to time new faces were added, one, two, three, and 



MR. TAYLOR'S LETTER TO HIS MOTHER 407 

four, whom we love full well, and witli whom we hope to 
journey ever more, but we miss those who have gone 
before. 

Last year the oldest of our company quietly went to 
sleep ; and on the Thanksgiving day after, you and I sat 
down to our family feast alone. It was a sad day for both, 
but we said nothing. 

I hope this time it was pleasanter. I would gladly have 
gone a hundred miles to be with you, and hope after 
this we shall not again be separated on that day. 

I think we have been led into "green pastures " and by 
" still waters," and I thank God every day for the multi- 
tude of His blessings and have no doubt of His daily care 
and guidance. Let us then be very thankful for the good 
and pleasant things we have enjoyed, and full of hope over 
what is to come, remembering that all our steps are 
directed by a hand that cannot fail. The way we are led 
may not be our choice, but it will be the best. What a 
comfort to think that nothing can go wrong ! But that can 
only be true when we keep in view the two worlds of our 
existence. 

We do not know whether the spirits in bliss know any- 
thing about the events going on here, or take any interest 
in them ; much less can we conceive what marvelous 
things will be told to each pilgrim arriving, by those who 
have enjoyed the light of the Saviour's face for twenty 
years. We might almost wish to hasten our time, but no — 
our duty is to harvest all earth can give us, till the day of 
our call. The flowers, fruits, grain, and perhaps thorns, 
are ours ; all is well. 

" One sweetly solemn thought 

Comes to me o'er and o'er, 
I'm nearer home to-day, 

Than I have been before." 



408 TRA VELS 

I humbly trust we shall yet celebrate a Thanksgiving 
feast from which not one shall be absent. And then think 
of an endless, sinless life with saints, angels, Christ ! 

Your affectionate son, 

Henry W. Taylor. 



THE SIEGE OF LA ROCHELLE. 

THE famous siege of La Rochelle took place in the year 
1827, after a little more than 100 years of Protestant 
struggles, marked with alternate periods of success and 
failure, but gaining on the whole, until the time of final 
disaster. 

The origin of Protestantism there is uncertain. Perhaps 
it was the slow development of natural causes, or the 
disgust of sensible people for the abuses of the Catholic 
priesthood. Perhaps the seeds were brought by Dutch 
sailors, or it may be that the bold utterances of Luther 
found their way over the hills from far-off Wittenberg. 

In 1 534 they received the Bible in the French language, 
and that would surely bring out fearless men. 

The evil spirit that was then aroused by the leaven of 
the Reformation was illustrated by the burning alive of 
Marie Belandelle. 

In 1546, some nuns, called Black Sisters, deserted their 
convents and returned to their families. 

In 1548 the Inquisitor published a list of condemned 
books, such as the works of Wickliff, Huss, Jerome of 
Prague, Luther, Zwingle, and Calvin, by which we get a 
hint of the literature of the times. 

In 1552 a person was burned at the stake after having 



THE SIEGE OF LA ROCHELLE 



409 



his tongue slit, but, in spite of that, in 1588, the first church 
was organized, and a consistory estabhshed. 

1589, Abjuration of Henry of Navarre, "Weakness," 
"Duplicity," "Sacrilege," "A Blot"; 1598, Edict of 
Nantes. Full liberty of conscience ; 1606, Jesuit Legnums; 
1 610, Henry Assassinated ; 16 14, Pastors try to quiet 
troubles; 1621, General Assembly at La Rochelle ; 1622, 
War, Fort Louis, before their gates ; " Delenda est 
Carthago." 

It was the determination to destroy La Rochelle. The 
priests hated it because it was the stronghold of the 
Reformation, the king, because it had resisted all the 
power he had been able to bring against it. Richelieu, 
though a priest, looked forward only to the political re- 
sults. 

To accomplish this downfall the royal power was con- 
centrated, and the Cardinal was the guiding genius. 

A gi-eat fort, St. Louis, had been constructed before its 
very gates, and munitions of war of every available 
description had been concentrated for a vigorous attack. 

The Rochellais had long watched the signs of the com- 
ing events. They had no confidence in royal promises, 
and, although always very loyal, were compelled, now, to 
trust to their walls and their strong arms for safety. 

Buckingham with his English ship was in the harbor, but 
probably he did not care greatly for La Rochelle, but 
rather for the addition of a new Calais to the English 
possessions. He did not attack Fort St. Louis, that would, 
perhaps, have raised the siege, but he seized upon the Isle 
of Re, a comfortable place for him, but not very danger- 
ous to the royal enemies. 

The Rochellais were truly French, loved France, and 
26 



410 



TRA VELS 



now made one more effort at reconciliation, but it was 
answered by cannon mounted before their gates (Sept. lo, 
1627), and they must open or fight. 

The King arrived on the 12th of October. All the mili- 
tary forces of the kingdom were before La Rochelle. 
Thirty-six thousand picked men and an immense war 
material. All the ports, from Havre to Bayonne, had 
furnished men and small craft. Richelieu, in three 
months, by strenuous effort of will and activity, had 
precipitated the whole power of France upon this single 
point. La Rochelle had 28,000 souls, — 7,000 fighting men, 
and of Buckingham's 10,000, but only 4,000 remained. Had 
Buckingham guarded the sea, France being short of 
vessels, he might still have been master of the situation. 
But the blunder of putting 6,000 picked men on shipboard 
was committed. They passed and were lost. On the 
6th of November, before embarking, he played his last 
card, making a desperate assault on the fort. He lost 
many men in the attack, and more in his embarkation, and 
2,000 men were killed (November 17th), after which he 
made a disgraceful retreat. This unfortunate city, aban- 
doned by him who had compromised it, was now con- 
fronted by a monarchy. Six thousand, without help and 
almost without provisions, undertook to defend themselves 
for one year more against a great army with a whole king- 
dom behind it. 

France, in 1627, employed vast sums of money to destroy 
her own chief stronghold. Millions were thrown away in 
constructing immense works which could serve only a 
temporary purpose. Some of these forts, built to capture 
the city, were as extensive as the city itself. They were 
united together by a prodigious system of circumvallation 
of three or four leagues in extent, which encircled the 



THE SIEGE OF LA ROCHELLE 41 1 

suburban country. A monster La Rochelle had been 
built to smother the smaller one, and for one year's use 
alone. After all, this would be useless unless commimica- 
tion by sea was shut off. Some attempts had failed, but 
Richelieu's will overcaine all. The whole army desired to 
work on the dike. Each soldier was paid for every basket- 
ful of stones he brought. The soldier's pay was also 
largely increased, bounties and good warm clothing were 
distributed with provisions in abundance. Money went 
directly from the cash-box to the soldier. This dike is 
said to have been one-half mile long, in some places sixty 
feet wide, and 840 feet below the surface of the water. 
(Lord.) On September 29th the mile was completed. 

The Cardinal may have been a bad man, a cruel, un- 
scrupulous man, but he was great. Most generals would 
have given this work up in despair, for besides being diffi- 
cult to construct, on account of its doubtful foundation 
and great height, it might be carried away by the sea 
when the first strong wind should blow. Yet he remained 
indomitable ; his strong will, one of the secrets of his suc- 
cess, did not know how to yield. Little as we might 
admire him as a man, his unyielding determination to 
compel success also compelled a certain admiration, 
though coupled with hate, as in the case of another re- 
nowned Frenchman of later times. The French, 'tis said, 
all except the King, hated him at one time, and but for the 
doubtful wisdom of its besieged in shutting out the Eng- 
lish, he might have failed. 

The Rochellais suspected the English and zvould not 
throw open their gates to them. "What do you offer.?" 
said Buckingham, "what indemnity for our expense.?" 
"We offer only our hearts," stubbornly replied these 
heroes. This immortal resistance is vouched for by a 



412 



TRA VELS 



Catholic, Arceve, who had possession of all the manu- 
scripts, since destroyed. 

" Who would not mourn at seeing France thus annihi- 
late that which was best in her ? — The incipient republic 
was maintaining itself against two kings." 

Brave challenges to single combat were offered to the 
enemy outside of the walls, and fought as bravely. 

This was not a contest in which bravery was to receive 
its merited reward. The besiegers remembered the an- 
cient bravery of the Rochellais and feared to make an 
assault. Means less brilliant, but surer, were taken ; it was 
resolved to reduce it, not by cannon and sapping, but by 
famine. It was surrounded by seventeen forts and a 
greater number of armed redoubts, cutting off all com- 
munications from the land, and when the dike should be 
completed no provisions could be received from the sea, 
and thus for this unfortunate people was preparing the 
dreadful tragedy of starvation. 

Noble, patriotic, and true to their king and nation, yet 
doomed to endure the most unequalled suffering, for no 
good reason, or if a reason were given, truthfully, it would 
be that they desired to worship God according to an 
enlightened conscience. 

About April 9, 1628, party feeling became excited and 
the mayor became a dictator. Capt. Guiton was elected 
in spite of himself. ' ' You know not what you do in 
choosing me," he said. " Understand me well, that with 
me there is no talk of surrender ; whoever breathes a word 
of it, I will kill." He laid his dagger on the table of 
the City Hall and left it there permanently. 

A Guiton was needed to sustain the city against the 
horrible blow it experienced in beholding the English, 
so long waited for, at length appear and disappear, without 
making any effort in its behalf. 



THE SIEGE OF LA ROCHELLE 



413 



In such an extremity of despair the fanaticism of a dying 
country drove a man to dedicate himself to the kiUing of 
Richelieu. He only wished to be assured " that it was no 
sin. " Guiton did not approve, and the ministers to whom 
he also went forbade him to do the act, saying, " If God 
saves us it will not be by means of a heinous crime." 

"The famine had become pressing; the people had 
eaten everything, even down to leather, which they boiled. 
A cat was sold for 45 lires. A barbarous thing, deferred 
as long as possible, had finally to be done, viz.: to drive 
out the poor, the aged, the infirm, and the women who 
were widows or without support, and send them over to 
the besiegers, that is to say, to their death ; whoever 
passed the lines was lost. This unfortunate crowd, on pre- 
senting themselves, were received with gun shots. They 
returned imploringly to La Rochelle and found there 
visages of stone, and gates inexorably closed. They must 
die of hunger between the two." 

" In the midst of the horrible scenes we have recalled, 
Guiton invariably displayed to his fellow citizens a coun- 
tenance that was placid, almost gay. By day he presided 
in the council, visited the. sick, and consoled the dying ; by 
night he made the rounds, and in person commanded the 
patrols. 

" Some citizens, in their distress, thinking he stood alone 
in the way of peace, attempted to kill him. Guiton, 
relentless to spies and traitors, did no more than imprison 
those who laid the blame on him alone." 

The English Parliament had finally aroused itself and 
voted a powerful subsidy to save La Rochelle. Bucking- 
ham moved with disheartening slowness. His country- 
men accused him of treachery, and one of them assas- 
sinated him. 



414 



TRA VELS 



This third fleet did not set out until September, too late 
to deliver the city; soon enough to see it perish. 

The first English army served to consume a part of their 
provisions, the second to drive them to despair, and the 
third to leave 15,000 people to die of hunger. 

" Richelieu had made repeated offers to the besieged, 
even so far as to propose that the king should enter with 
but 200 men, merely to say he had entered. For form's 
sake they would only have to pull down the exterior angle 
of the bastion, but matters had reached that point where 
surrender was no longer possible. The magistrate who 
would have signed the act would have been killed as a 
traitor. They dragged their bodies along, no longer bore 
their arms, and could only walk by the aid of sticks. Sen- 
tinels were found in the morning dead with hunger, at their 
posts. And with all this Guiton said: " It will soon be our 
turn. So long as one live man remains to close the gate, 
it suffices." 

" On the 28th of September, before this dead city ap- 
peared eighty English ships ; several of them were power- 
ful ones. The French had but forty-five small vessels, 
defended, however, by the batteries on shore. 

It was a grand spectacle, every man at his post, the 
Cardinal on the dike, the king everywhere. Ladies in 
coaches watched from the bluffs." The English who had 
been sent ahead, lead-line in hand, soon came to halt, 
finding little depth of water. The larger vessels could not 
come up, they said, and the smaller ones would be of no 
use. The French refugees who were on board the English 
fleet then asked to be permitted to take in the fire-boats — 
to go and fasten them with their own hands to the stock- 
ade. They could discern, from the sea, the poor people of 
La Rochelle who had bravely opened the little inner gate- 



THE SIEGE OF LA ROCHELLE 415 

way, and, who on their own part, in spite of the tide and 
wind were driving a fire-ship upon the dike. The English- 
man did not grant our French the honor they asked. He 
drew his fire-boats himself, very poorly, and crosswise. 
Everything shamefully miscarried. 

What did this fleet come for? To negotiate? It was 
the death of La Rochelle, and brought everything to an 
end. The moral blow it inflicted was so heavy that the 
people ran to throw themselves at Richelieu's feet. Had 
the English not come to drive them to despair they might 
have held out eight days longer, when the dike was de- 
stroyed by a tempest, and the city could have been 
revictualed and might have still continued to hold out. 

After being apprised of the treaty by which the English, 
his faithless allies, had delivered him over to Richelieu, 
Guiton, seeing his garrison reduced to seventy-four French 
and sixty-two English, felt that he had accomplished and 
obtained from his fellow countrymen everything that was 
possible consistent with humanity. He was accordingly 
the first to ask that surrender be made to the king. 
Then himself liberated from prison Raphael Colin, a 
mortal enemy, and turned over to him the custody of the 
city, hoping thereby to faciliate the conclusions of a treaty. 

The King gazed upon the suppliants kneeling at his feet, 
deputies from the proud city which had kept him more 
than a year at her gates, fleshless, almost fainting, they 
still bore on their features the traces of the haughty past. 

The fighting men marched out, not more than sixty-four 
French and ninety English. 

October 28th, the treaty was signed by which the King 
granted life and property to the inhabitants of the town 
who were then in it, and the right to exercise their religion 
in La Rochelle. 



41 6 TRA VELS 

When he entered the city a ghastly picture presented 
itself. In a few days a change had come. The wild fury 
of the fighting men was gone. They were now "skele- 
tons, empty shadows, breathing corpses." 

A short time before, "one saw in the streets," says 
Arceve, " nothing but semblances of dying people, who 
seemed to defend against death the remains of a body 
shrivelled by the severest diet. Motives of liberty and 
religion, those powerful motives which afford much 
strength to the soul, enabled them still to rely upon their 
courage for that which their bodily strength refused. In 
feeble and expiring voice, they exhorted their rulers to 
continue the defense, and their last sigh was for their 
country's safety. The city was soon nothing but a glooiny 
habitation where desolation reigned. Entire families 
perished at once, and their houses served as their tombs, 
for there were none to carry them out. The living were 
only wan and emaciated spectres, animated by a breath 
which they owed only to the torch of death." 

The conquerer of his own best subjects, on marching 
through the streets, saw on every hand the perfected work 
of that horrible state of things just described, a dead 
city, graveless because there was no one with strength 
enough left to bury his dead. We may wonder if in these 
deathbed scenes, nature still possessed the full power of 
sensation. Did the husbands, wives, parents, children, 
and lovers feel their misery in proportion to its apparent 
intensity, or did kind nature furnish some anodyne in those 
hours of unspeakable torture ? May God save the world 
from the repetition of such horrors ! I dare not allow 
my imagination to pursue the subject. 

But who were those unfortunate people ? Wicked 
wretches and criminals deserving what they received.'' 



RAVENNA 417 

No ; they were the salt of the earth, gentle, kind, and 
loving, true to the king and their country, cultivated, con- 
scientious, patriotic citizens, whose crime was, that they 
refused to yield their long-enjoyed charter, and oft-re- 
newed rights ; but more than that, because they were the 
children of God, and loved the divine word and followed 
its precepts, and as a consequence were condemning 
judges, a scorching fire burning the miserable hypocrite, 
the so-called priests of a debased religion. 

The cruelty of the conqueror, at least for a time, ceased 
at the fall of La Rochelle, but what a blot on the history 
of France, what a miserable blunder to drive away its best 
and most skilled citizens, to the advantage of other na- 
tions. 

Let us remember that at the time of this memorable 
siege, our own Pilgrim fathers were struggling in the 
wilds of Plymouth, striving to build up a free state si:ch as 
degenerate France was eager to drive from its shores. 



RAVENNA. 



ON the eastern shore of Italy, not far from Venice, is 
situated an interesting and very ancient city. Its 
history reaches back far into the dim historic twilight of 
the past. It might have had an existence before ^neas 
landed on the Italian Peninsula ; and glorious days and 
heroic adventures, once their heritage, for want of a histo- 
rian, are lost and forgotten. 

How little of the world's history do we know. Only a 
few^ glimmers out of the evening shadows, while the story 
of continents for thousands of years has dissolved into 
night. No doubt in all this rubbish of the lost years there 



41 8 TRA VELS 

must have been noble men and women, and souls worthy 
to be remembered, that must forever remam as though 
they had not been. 

Some think the first inhabitants of Ravenna came from 
Thessaly, but who can say when ? In the course of un- 
counted time the Etruscans were there — that strange people 
who have left their footprints on many and widely scat- 
tered places in the Roman dominion, which even her 
younger and more advanced civilization could never oblit- 
erate. How we would like to know more about them ! but 
their tombs are voiceless. Almost 200 years before Christ 
they yielded to the Romans, unwillingly, of course, but it 
was their destiny. They were destroyed, or they melted 
away into that people ; but they, in their time, also fell 
into the hands of the destroyer, and long ago the last pure 
Roman blood ceased to flow, and a mongrel race in time 
became the inheritor. 

In early days Ravenna had many attractions, no doubt. 
Now it is a kind of dead Venice. Then it had some of the 
peculiarities of the former city ; its lagoons, islands, canals, 
its palaces, warehouses, its great ships and the light gon- 
dolas that silently threaded its complicated, watery streets, 
a means of communication for business or pleasure. It 
was a strange city, perhaps, but it was only a Venice 
twenty centuries older than the one we dream about. 

Augustus chose it for a naval station. In its convenient 
harbor 250 ships could ride at anchor in safety. It was a 
busy place in those days, alive with the buzz and stir of 
commerce. 

Perhaps, unobserved by the inhabitants, causes were 
then at work that in time — it might be centuries — would 
bring its ruin. The mainland, near, was a broad, flat plain, 
deposited by the waters flowing from the hills. The small 



J? A VENN A 



419 



rivers, Ronco and Latnone, found an exit there into the 
sea. Barriers of islands, as generations passed, showed a 
tendency to join the shore. The streams came sometimes 
gently, but were often aroused by the winter torrents, al- 
ways, however, laden with sand from the Apennines or 
far-off Alps, unloading in the harbors and canals, trans- 
forming the islands into sand hills, and in the end changing 
an ancient Venice into an inland town, far from the sea 
and desolate. 

In the process of time a port called Classis was built, 
miles away, where the vessels at length stopped. A long 
line of houses connecting the two was called Cassarea, and 
the three, as the years passed on, became practically one. 
The harbor and Ctesarea, pursued by the conquering 
enemy, early fell into decay, and Ravenna continued only 
as the capital of the province Flaminic. 

Some writers knew how to grumble in those early days 
as well as now, for they fotind the water muddy and the 
city infested with gnats. It was not strange that they were 
irritated by such tormentors, for they were too small to 
allow a chance for vengeance. But the ill-natured remark 
that " they had frogs to their citizens" evidently showed 
that the Italian love for the beautiful had not begtm its de- 
velopment. None but rude souls would speak disparag- 
ingly of the sweet music flowing from those melodious 
batrachian throats. 

The great coast changes probably took place after the 
age of Augustus and before the time of Theodoric, or be- 
fore the end of the fifth century. 

But the change was great. Not far away is the famous 
forest, dim and dark now, but in the time of Augustus the 
great imperial fleet of 250 ships, without fear of sand, wind, 
ro rocks, rode confidingly at anchor. There it swung 



420 



TRA VELS 



around with every changing wind, and, like a thing of life, 
with unvarying pertinacity, faced the disturbing element. 

In its glorious days Ravenna was called one of the two 
cities in the world. Rome was, of course, the first — no 
other could be the second. As it was the strongest fortress 
in the empire, emperors fled thither for protection. When 
the Eternal City trembled on its foundation, fearing trait- 
ors within or enemies without, when its old walls were tot- 
tering that for a thousand years had laughed at all the 
world, Ravenna was in her glory. 

For a hundred or more years previous to the fifth century 
the ears of the Roman people had often been startled by 
the rumor of a strange people who, in the far-off East, had 
suddenly come to notice. They cared little for home or 
native land, but had a strong passion for plunder, and 
loved to roam over the world. They invaded and plun- 
dered a portion of the Chinese Empire, whither some of 
their families had wandered, as if guided by some invisible 
impulse. Some, far around by the north, and others by 
the south, came unexpectedly upon the Roman Empire. 
Among them were Goths, Huns, Allimani, etc., all Ger- 
manic nations with the exception of the Huns, who were a 
race of Tartars. 

On the death of Theodosius, as if a restraint once exer- 
cised upon them was gone, they rose like hungry beasts let 
loose upon a coveted prey, and Rome was the object of their 
search for pleasure or revenge. For centuries Rome had 
ruled them in Gaul, Germany, and other parts of the trans- 
Alpine world. Other fresh hordes had come from the 
mother land of nations, had mingled with them and 
strengthened them. Many had been in the Roman legions, 
and, being there taught the art of war, turned now against 
their teachers and conquerors. They were formidable in 



RAVENNA 421 

their numbers, physical strength, and bravery. Rome, old 
Rome by the Tiber, was weak, degraded, and effeminate. 
That warlike virtue that made her the conqueror of the 
world was all gone now. There were still brave men 
there, but the body politic, though a kind of Christianity 
had been engrafted upon it, was weak, selfish, cowardly, 
and without character. It was of little use for a brave 
general to appear ; he would have few to sustain him, and 
treachery was lurking everywhere to betray. The time, 
perhaps, had come, too, for vengeance to require satisfac- 
tion for all the blood she had spilled and the misery she 
had caused during long centuries by her cruel, causeless 
ambition, and well the debt was paid. These rude warriors 
may have felt only the impulse of their wild natures, but 
they were, nevertheless, obeying the avenging nemesis. 

The Alps raised their barrier peaks high in the clouds, 
and shut the gateways with ice, but the Goth and the Hun 
found a way, and rivers of barbarians flowed down upon 
the once cultivated fields, more desolating than the lava 
streams of her own volcanoes. 

Attilla, Alasic, Genseric, and others destroyed cities, vil- 
lages, vineyards, and all that was attractive, and Rome fell 
many times, to be plundered by her ancient vassals. 

The imagination is not able to picture the horrors of that 
century of broadspread desolation. Stillicho and others 
fought, but they lived in a corrupt age, where it was dan- 
gerous to be great. 

In the midst of all this, Ravenna, upon her islands and 
morasses, heard, indeed, the tramp of the destroying 
armies, but was safe from their bloody, plundering hands, 
for in those days her peculiar situation and the strength of 
her fortifications prevented a direct attack. Honorius, a 
Roman emperor, fearing a general catastrophe, fled to this 



422 TRA VELS 

Stronghold, and was safe, but, in saving himself, he ignobly 
sneaked away, leaving the imperial city to its fate. 

A few weak successors occupied his place. The strange 
historic drama of " Placidia" was played, and Theodoric, 
the Goth, became the conqueror and king of Italy, and the 
empire of the West was at an end. 

The reign of Theodoric was good for Italy, and during 
those thirty-three years she enjoyed unaccustomed pros- 
perity, protection, and the encouragement of industry. 

The barbarians then seemed better than the so-called 
Christians. It seemed as though a strange transformation 
of character had taken place. The barbarian was really a 
better man than the Christian, but the latter was then only 
so in name ; it was a kind of political religion — the name 
without the reality. Some were no doubt sincere, but 
their standard was low ; it was a kind of party sentiment, 
not a renewed holy life, far below the gospel of the Divine 
Son. We must not forget that the world at large at that 
time did not have the Scriptures beyond a few selections. 
What should we be if so deprived of our daily food? 
Christianity, as a life, had a long, not very hopeful exist- 
ence, and a death struggle ten ot- more centuries before 
reaching the standard of to-day. 

The great Goth, perhaps, was not a good man, but he did 
many good things, and with his reign began a phase of civ- 
ilization better than he found — a strange glimmering in a 
dark night, an unexpected brightness where none was 
hoped for. 

Theodoric became master of Italy A. D.493 by the assas- 
sination of his rival, Odoacer, an act of treachery that will 
forever blacken his name. After a reign of thirty-three 
years, he died in 525 A. D. 

Whatever might have been the real character of the 



RA VENNA 423 

Gothic king, his rule was, for the most part, a blessing to 
the people. Italy during that time enjoyed a peace and 
prosperity such as it had, perhaps, never known before or 
since. He knew how to rule the wild Goth and the weak, 
treacherous, degenerate Roman. They lived together in 
peace, if they did not love each other. Rights were pro- 
tected, and almost universal prosperity was enjoyed. He 
was an Arian, and for that reason disliked by the Roman 
Catholics, but he was too strong and too wise to permit any 
difference of opinions on religious subjects to interrupt 
the peace of the country. Contrary to charges made 
against him, he admired Roman art and protected her mon- 
uments. In many respects he was one of the best rulers 
who ever sat on the throne of the world's imperial city. 

If he had lived long enough, or if his successors had been 
like him until his many-tongued people had melted down 
into one of symmetrical character, the history of Italy, and, 
perhaps, the world, might have been a far different story. 

With all his wisdom, he is to be charged with the murder 
of Boethius, and Symmachus, and a shadow rested on his 
last da3^s. 

Ravenna, until the eighth centurj-, was regarded as the 
seat of government and capital of Italy. 

Soon after the death of Thedoric, Liutprand, the Lom- 
bard, made an unwelcome visit and took Classe. 

In 540 it was again united to the Roman Empire. 

Ravenna was afterwards subdued by force or treachery, 
and the ruin of the Gothic kingdom accomplished. 

A. D. 768-814, Carlo Magno came and carried off many 
of its art treasures to set them up again in some structure 
of his own in Aix-la-Chapelle. 

Century after century rolled away, and Ravenna — its 
glory gone — owned the authority of one and another domi- 



424 TRA VELS 

nant power, perhaps Venetian or papal, and once for a 
time it became a republic, showing a longing for some- 
thing better in the midst of its political degradation. 

Its glorious days were the era of Theodoric, when it was 
one of the two capitals of the world. Of what might have 
happened there in the old Roman days, only glimpses can 
now be gathered, but in its Gothic period there was a sud- 
den bursting out of glory, unlike anything in its past or in 
its subsequent days, but it was destined with the succeed- 
ing centuries to pass away. 

Its architecture from the fourth to the eighth century is 
of great interest. " Ravenna is the only city where we are 
met at every step by the work of Christian emperors, 
Gothic kings, and Byzantine exarchs of those strange, 
dark, and unhappy centuries in which the old world was 
shaping into the new. Ravenna has these monuments al- 
most to herself," — churches and basilicas, unattractive 
outside, but glorious within. Many of the campaniles 
were added by a later age. 

" The eye dwells with genuine delight on the long, un- 
broken rows of pillars and arches, their marble shafts, 
floriated capitals, sometimes the work of Christian crafts- 
men, sometimes the spoil of heathendom, pressed into the 
service of the sanctuary." There were void spaces in the 
walls, " but the rude spaces thus left are filled up by those 
wonderful mosaic paintings which look down upon us as 
fresh as they were 1,300 years before."* 

The visitors of to-day will find interesting squares with 
ancient associations. The Piazzo Maggiore, in the center 
of the town, said to correspond with the ancient Forum 
Senatorum, is adorned with two lofty granite columns, 

* Freeman. 



J? A VENN A 



425 



erected by the Venetians in 1483, surmounted with statues 
of SS. ApoUinaris and Vitalis, with bas-relief by Pietro 
Lombardo ; also a statue of Pope Clement XII (1738) and a 
colonnade of eight columns of granite, said to belong to a 
basilica erected or restored by Theodoric. Perhaps the 
objects of greatest interest will be the churches — some 
very old, of the days of Roman glory, and some of later 
years. A few of these will be noticed. 

The Baptistery (Battisturo degli Ortodosse), probably 
founded 396 A. D., octagonal in form, with a series of ar- 
cades in the interior, rising one above the other. The cu- 
pola is decorated with mosaics of the fifth century, the 
most ancient in Ravenna. The font, very large, is of white 
marble of the fifth century. 

The Archiepiscopal palace possesses a chapel of the fifth 
century, with mosaics, etc. , entirely in their original con- 
dition. There can be seen the church of S. Niccoli, built 
in 768 ; St. Agata, in fifth century ; S. Francesco, in 540 ; 
St. Vitale, of the time of Justinian, an imitation of the 
church of St. Sophia in Constantinople, and the model for 
the cathedral in Aix-la-Chapelle, rich in mosaics. S. 
Nazario is the mausoleum of Galla Placidia, daughter of 
Theodosius and mother of Valentinian III, whose history 
might be woven into a most exciting tale. The church is 
in the form of a Latin cross, 46 x 39, with a dome adorned 
with beautiful mosaics. The sarcophagus of Galla Pla- 
cidia, behind the altar, was formerly enriched with plates 
of silver. The empress sitting on a throne was formerly 
to be seen in the interior, but her remains were accident- 
ally destroyed by fire in 1577. The remains of several 
kings and emperors found also a resting place under this 
dome. 



27 



426 TRA VELS 

Here are the sole monuments of emperors of ancient 
Rome that still remain in their original position. 

S. Maria in Cosmedin, once a baptistery, was adorned 
with mosaics of the sixth century. 

S. Apollinaris Nuoro, a basilica erected about 500 by 
Theodoric, as an Arian cathedral, and contains twenty- 
four columns brought from Constantinople. The walls of 
the nave are adorned with interesting mosaics. 

We will not stop at the palace of Theodoric longer than 
to say that, after his death, it was occupied by the exarchs 
and the Lombard kings. Later still, it was plundered by 
Charlemagne, and by his order its art treasures and the 
columns were removed to Germany. 

The Rotunda, the mausoleum of Theodoric, is outside 
the city. It is decagonal in shape, with a flat dome thirty- 
six feet in diameter. It is now half under water. 

These are only a few out of the many buildings at least 
1,200 years old, peculiar in their structure, and in history 
going back far into the past. 

La Pineta, the pine forest of Ravenna, one of the most 
ancient and extensive in Italy, extolled by Dante, Boccac- 
cio, and others, begins just beyond the church of S. Apol- 
linaris, and extends many miles along the road to Rimini, 
growing where once was a harbor where the fleet of Au- 
gustus could ride at anchor. 

Ravenna, the ancient Venice, long ago lost its glory. It 
had a dim history in the far-off past — we cannot tell how 
glorious. A rival of Rome, one of the two great cities in 
the world, an asylum for emperors when the Eternal City 
had become weak. In historic times it enjoyed a few cen- 
turies of peculiar grandeur. One of the greatest Italian 
kings reigned there, and Italy, after a long age of discord 
and insecurity, in his reign rested in peace and prosperity. 



RA VENN A 



427 



He was, indeed, a barbarian from beyond the Alps, but yet 
greater and wiser than most who were children of the 
proudest of cities. The fierce, wild warriors of the North 
and the inheritors of the conquerors of the world, however 
diverse and antagonistic in all their tastes, rested and la- 
bored in peace. 

If the better spirit of Theodoric had continued in his suc- 
cessors, who can tell what might have been the conse- 
quence to the rest of the world. A Germanic civilization 
might have pervaded the entire peninsula. The long, dis- 
mal period of Italian dark ages might not have been a part 
of history, and southern Italy to-day would not have been 
a home of brigands, but its sunny hills and plains would be 
smiling with the stability and character of the Teutonic 
nations. But Theodoric died. He left a deep impression 
on the minds of the northern people, and under the name of 
Dietrich von Bern he was made to act an important part in 
the great German national poem, the " Niebelungen-lied." 

After a few centuries Ravenna ceased to be glorious. 
The rivers brought down from the mountains their daily 
loads of sand. The lagoons and canals were filled, slowly 
but surely. The song of the gondolier ceased to be heard. 
Instead of the islands was, at last, a level plain. The sea 
had receded, and Ravenna, the former Venice, sat solitary 
and dying, five miles from her mother, the sea, and heard 
no more the waves of the far-off Adriatic. 

A sad picture is now presented to the imagination. The 
once mighty was shorn of its strength. With the depart- 
ure of the sea had also gone her power and glory. A few 
monuments with peculiar beauty still sparkled with mosaics 
and indicated its former glory. But Ravenna sits like a lone 
widow, as though musing sadly upon her wealth and her 
companions, long departed. 



428 



TRA VELS 



The plain is flat and uninteresting, the mountains are in 
the distance, but they bring not pleasant memories, for the 
grains of sand worn from their sides have been insidious 
foes, working day and night for centuries to complete her 
destruction, and well they have succeeded. 

Dante, after years of trouble and wandering, found a 
home there, and there his bones rest to-day. The churches 
and palaces of the Gothic period are interesting objects, 
but the sad life of the great poet, deserted by his friends, 
hunted by his enemies, saddened by his strange visions till 
the boys in the streets pointed, in a half -whisper, to him as 
the man who had been in hell, and the world knew him as 
the saddest man who ever lived, adds an association by no 
means the least interesting. 

Perhaps it is fitting that the last thoughts of this paper 
should be about the greatest of Italian poets, who for 
some has a marvelous fascination, not alone for the beauty 
and horror of the thoughts he gathered, but from the con- 
viction, ever present, that he spoke in terrible earnestness 
and seemed to believe all he sang, and, so far as bones and 
tombs may be called a treasure, Ravenna possesses the 
richest shrine of all the peoples who read the " Divino 
Commedia. " 



PERUGIA. 



LEAVING the Eternal City and journeying nearly 
toward the north, we pass over an intensely interest- 
ing portion of the old Roman world, full of history of the 
far-off, but entangled in the ever varying network of 
romance and tales of love and tragedy of the middle ages, 
a journey, to any observing person, replete with thrill- 
ing interest. 



PERUGIA 



429 



The road interesting, the views picturesque, we would 
like to linger pleasant hours ; but we suddenly find our- 
selves, as though a curtain had been raised, approaching 
the interesting and ancient city of Perugia. It is a good 
illustration of some of the less known and peculiar cities 
of Italy, such as no one would think of building to-day, 
but that in troublous ages grew out of the demands of 
the times. 

In journeying through this old peninsula our wonder 
and curiosity is often aroused by the sight — near or far 
away — of some little city on the top of a steep, high hill, 
sometimes almost a mountain, with narrow streets, if any, 
its buildings closely packed together and clinging as 
though glued to the top — away up in the sky. They 
seem dark and unsightly, for they were once fortresses. 
Many of them are in ruins, with no apparent connection 
with the rest of the world, solemn memorials of departed 
centuries. Sometimes indications of life may be seen, but 
often we are reminded only of ruins or cemeteries. 

They were probably the product of ancient times when 
law was almost unknown, when the land was ruled by 
many petty chiefs, each of whom was in constant fear 
of being captured and enslaved by his neighbor. For 
safety, he built his castle upon some precipitous hill, 
because it would be more easily defended. The people, 
for protection, built their cottages around him near his 
walls, and thus in time there grew a little mutually-in- 
terested colony, without much regard to beauty, gradually 
becoming cemented together, rude indeed, but curious 
monuments of old centuries and feudal society. 

Perugia was a city of this description, but one of the 
largest and one that has gone through many modernizing 
changes and with many indications of prosperity. It 



430 



TRA VELS 



looked very picturesque as we approached it, rising some 
1,550 feet above the Tiber, which passes by, not far 
away, on its journey to receive from the ancient capital of 
the world its load of mud, and to pour it into the sea at 
Ostia. 

It is quite a labor to go from the station, a distance of a 
mile or more, by means of a zigzag road rising with many 
turns, upward and upward, to the city gates, — some say 
800 feet. The landscape extends farther and farther in its 
beauty as we tug along, but our sympathies for the poor 
horses who drag us up, causes a few drops of pain to fall 
into our cup of pleasure. 

Having entered the gates, for the city is still walled, as 
in ancient times, a very curious picture is before us. The 
plan, if plan it could be called, is marvelously irregular. 
It lies upon the top of a hill or of several contiguous hills, 
where men laid their foundations, not on account of any 
idea of convenience or pleasantness, but, I presume, where- 
ever they found a space to build upon. There is a kind of 
nucleus in the center, or on the short principal street, froin 
which long antennas-like, narrow pathways, sometimes 
called streets, stretch away, I could not say in what 
directions, — the whole somewhat resembling a spider. 

The streets were, for the most part, very narrow and 
often precipitous. Sometimes you would find a stairway 
in your path, and again you would be led through a gate 
to some uncertain region beyond. Once, fortified with my 
guide-book and map, well studied beforehand, as was sup- 
posed, I went out to visit the museum, etc. Starting from 
the cathedral my course was down, through, up, hither 
and yon, through narrow lanes, dreadfully compressed 
and obscure, but with no doubt of ultimate success ; 
withal greatly interested with this — to me — the queerest 



PERUGIA 431 

of cities. Indeed, it would have been a delight to continue 
this novel, obscure, and uncertain excursion for hours, but 
for the value of time. I was pleased, but it seemed a long 
time to wander about, and while thinking of what would 
become of the rest of the city if so much time were de- 
voted to this labyrinth, suddenly there came a sensation of 
being lost, for, the buildings being high, I caught no 
glimpse of the hill-tops that would have set me right. 
But the mystery was at length solved, for on rising a 
flight of steps I found myself safe and sound at my hotel 
door that had been left about an hour before. After all, 
there was a charm in this uncertainty, since my rambling 
was all in the midst of very interesting objects. 

After another study I was able to comprehend the out- 
line and found the place before sought in vain. 

Running in a nearly northerly direction was the princi- 
pal street, the Corso, on the top of the main ridge upon 
which this interesting city was built. At one end was the 
gate at which I entered, climbing up slowly and painfully. 
As you walk toward the north, not many parallel streets 
were at the right or left before you descend to lower 
ground. I located at the Albugo delta Posta near the 
south end. Sauntering up and down one is struck with 
the antiquated styles on all sides. Old palaces, once the 
home of wealth, power, and pride, or strongholds of rival 
lords or petty tyrants keeping up a show of limited royalty. 

Sometimes patriotism and refinement had homes there, 
but often, also, cruelty and crime. These venerable 
palaces of old-time power are interesting, but yet sad 
objects to contemplate. Every room or passageway may 
have had its tale of nobleness or blood unrevenged. One 
might, under the influence of an excited imagination, 
seriously look around for the indelible blood spots on the 



432 



TRA VELS 



floor or walls, and almost hear the screams and groans, 
and seem to stumble over some bleeding victim, for many 
of these buildings, in their history, run back to feudal 
times, when crime and cruelty seemed to belong to the 
normal condition of the race. What tales these walls 
might tell if they could speak ! and how fortunate are Ave 
who live in younger centuries ! 

Some of these rooms contain inasterly frescoes by 
Perugini, Boufigli, Gian Mani, di Pisa (both), Sassoferrato, 
and even Raphael had been there, and many others. 

Some of the old palaces are closed, tenantless, and silent. 
Some have been given over to common, even vulgar, 
everyday uses, like old finery, that we sometimes feel 
should have been burned rather than kept to be doomed to 
disgrace and ridicule. 

Many churches are scattered over the city, some of 
which, in addition to their architectural beauty, contain 
paintings of considerable interest. The cathedral of St. 
Lorenzo, at the end of the Corso, standing on a high point 
of the city, is somewhat imposing but heavy. 

In front of it is a rather remarkable fountain adorned 
with biblical figures executed by Nicolo and Giramida da 
Pisa in 1 277-1 280. The thought that it has been standing, 
and most of the time pouring out its streams of water for 
600 years, partakes somewhat of a bewilderment, we feel 
there is something in the world that is almost permanent 
after all. 

Above or about the cathedral door, painted on a sign, 
were the words, " Indulgenza plenaria," from which, ap- 
parently, if I had in hand money enough and my mind 
were so inclined, a complete forgiveness of my sins could 
have been obtained, and for once I could have stood forth 
under the eyes of heaven pure and holy as an angel, but. 



PERUGIA 433 

unfortunately, I could not see what connections were possi- 
ble between the clinking of my money into the priestly 
coffers and the taint on my soul, that long experience had 
taught me to be as scarlet. 

From many points of the outer wall most interesting 
views could be had of the surrounding country. The 
height above the valley of the Tiber is said to be 1,550 feet, 
which is about twice the elevation of our "Tower." Just 
what is meant by the "height above the Tiber" I do 
not know, but think Perugia is somewhat higher than our 
much-loved resort. There is some resemblance in their 
outlook, except that while our favorite is on a continuous 
range, Perugia is more nearly an isolated peak. 

You can look down on a beautiful landscape, artistically 
laid out, it would seem, as you might expect in the land 
where even the ragged peasant has a love for the beau- 
tiful. 

Nothing was unsightly, but there were green fields, varie- 
gated with cultivated farms, painted with soft eye-healing 
tints and dotted with villages and homes, not rugged and 
unharmonious as in our own modern home, but softened 
down by the rain and storms of centuries, and ornamented 
by moss and dust, that added the last artistic touch to a 
real landscape. 

The time spent in looking down from the various open 
spaces on the walls upon this old, historic, interesting 
natural picture, was an unspeakable delight, and some of 
the thrills of pleasure still linger. 

It might be difficult to tell what these mountain people 
live upon. 'Tis said they manufacture woolens, silks, wax 
candles, liquors, etc. I was somewhat amused at their 
unpretending market-place — nothing but a place, for it 
was out in the open air, — between two buildings, by the 



434 



TEA VELS 



Corso. There sat a number of women on the ground 
selling their goods that lay in piles at their feet. Among 
them were pyramids of cocoons, small, yellow, and beauti- 
ful. Doubtless they had been brought from the country 
where they were raised by those who offered them for 
sale. Had I been an artist a subject would have been 
borrowed from some of those groups. 

This is the home of Perugino, born in Piore about 1446. 
His real name was Vannocci, but he borrowed the name 
of the city of his adoption. His paintings are always 
prominent, and almost every collection has one of them, 
or more. His spirit seems to hover about this old moun- 
tain city, and thinking of him we constantly seem to see 
his peculiar faces. Probably they are not of a high order 
of art ; critics say his excellences are in his faces, and that 
the rest of the figure was often defective. It is said " the 
cord that echoes so powerfully in Perugino is the expres- 
sion of soul carried to enthusiastic devotions, in heads of 
the tenderest, purest, youthful beauty." Another says, 
"he seems to carry to their deepest depths the expression 
of self-sacrifice, of holy grief." 

Many would laugh at the faces of Perugino, and they are 
no doubt far behind modern masters in artistic beauty and 
excellence, yet granting their faults of many kinds, they 
have left on my memory stronger impressions than the 
pictures of many of the acknowledged princes of art. 

A second attempt was made to find the university. 
Passing through the Asco di Augusto, one of the remains 
of former times, and a connection between the upper and 
lower city, descending by stairways, sudden turns and 
dark passages, bewildering but very interesting, sailing by 
compass, the desired road was found to the sought-for 
ancient seat of learning. 

There was much here to interest, prominently — a 



PERUGIA 435 

botanic garden, scientific collection, a museum of Etruscan 
and Roman antiquities, and a picture gallery. One might 
spend days here without exhausting a tithe of what might 
be seen, and feels sorely the mockery of two or three hours. 
The traveler learns to submit to the unavoidable, and turns 
away obediently, when he must, but oftentimes with con- 
cealed regret and indignation at the never unlocked 
shackles with which the condition of life on this ball of 
ours holds us fast. 

Perugia (Perusia) was one of the twelve confederate 
cities of Etruria. The known history of old Italian towns 
is brought down to us only by its connection with Rome, 
and as Perugia is first mentioned in her annals, 310 years, 
B. C, beyond that date all must be conjecture. Neverthe- 
less, there must have been a long period of Hfe, perhaps 
for centuries, in which occurred great and noble deeds, it 
may be nobler than any of historic years. The Etruscans 
were a remarkable people. Their monuments, though 
they seem to have been long buried, prove the possession 
of great knowledge and power. How often we have 
looked wonderingly upon those long rows of vases in the 
museums of the old world, with their strange devices, and 
indications of uncommon skill! They who made them 
could have made other wonderful things, and, no doubt 
did, but, not being placed in preserving tombs, they were 
long ago ground up into dust, and thus returned to the 
soil from whence they were taken, and so the tortured 
material, at last, attained its everlasting rest. There let it 
rest in peace, for we have not time to worm into old and 
musty rolls. Perusia came into conflict with Rome and 
was unable to contend with such a vigorous enemy, — per- 
haps itself then in a state of decHne, after a long, interest- 
ing, but now lost history. Octavius and Antony, in later 
years, fought some of their battles under its walls. 



436 77?^ VELS 

In the sixth century, when the power and organization 
of Rome was gone, when the old Romans, with their warHke 
virtues, had all died out, and their places had been filled 
by others they once called slaves and barbarians, and the 
peninsula was torn and distracted by enemies at home and 
hordes from beyond the Alps, a day of retribution came, 
such as, in time, all nations may expect, as the price of 
crime. The Goth Totilla knocked at her gates, not in 
those pleasant tones that bring a note of welcome, but 
with sounds and manner that speak of terror, ruin, and 
death. This was no welcome, but defiant preparations, 
brave resolves, but no doubt also many trembling hands 
and faint hearts. These rude warriors from beyond the 
Alpine snows were resolved to win, cost what it might. 
The walls were thick, and from its situation, 800 feet above 
the plain, they knew it would be a strong fortress, with 
great power of resistance. They sat down before it — 
around it. Their camp was placed in the best position for 
observation, resistance, and successful attack. Their 
marauding and robber bands searched every hill and 
valley — now so delightful to the eye. The cottagers' 
home and the villas of the rich with their vineyards and 
olive groves, met a common ruin. The picture was one of 
desolation, hateful, for the desolators were still there, 
reaping the harvest. Sad indeed, would be the picture, 
when seen from the battlement, if we could transform its 
present beauty into what it might have been in those days 
of terror ! 

Months pass — they have not gone — years — they do 
not intend to go. The climate is milder than up by the 
Danube. T he productions of the earth grow abundantly, 
life is easy here, they have reached a kind of promised land. 

Seven years — and still the dreaded, hated scourge is 
there. They have resisted bravely, but those enfeebled 



PERUGIA 437 

Romans were no matcli for the hardy warriors of the 
north. The end is coming. The provisions are exhausted. 
The fighting men, one after another, have been sacrificed 
in combat out of the gates, or struggling upon the walls, or 
by some well directed missile. Princely blood had flowed, 
and noble deeds have been done in all these years. They 
have suffered all the terrors of the siege, looking down 
upon the wild barbarians coiling around them like a ser- 
pent. 

At last, the fated hour came. There was no power 
longer to resist. Perugia was taken, sacked, destroyed. 
I will leave it to your imagination to fill otit the details of 
the tragedy. 

It rose again from its ashes and participated in many 
wars in the dark ages. It suffered in the struggles of the 
Guelphs and Ghibellines, and was tortured by conflicts, 
sieges, and endless carnage till the modern time of i860. 

Notwithstanding all the terrible experiences of this city 
for about twenty-two centuries, it rises there to-day, in its 
beauty, its outline unchanged and unchangeable, but time 
has softened its rough corners, and used its artistic pencil 
or graving tool on many once unsightly structures, and 
made them beautiful. The landscape is spread out before 
us in almost unequaled beauty, ornamented with hamlets, 
villages, and distant hills, and roses, and all the numerous 
sisterhood of flowers, look up bright and smiling, though 
the mother earth had a hundred times been baptized with 
fire and blood. 

I left this peculiar city with regret, though my journey 
would be along Lago Trasimeno, famous for the battle 
gained by Hannibal over the Romans, and before night I 
should be in Fiorenza, the envy of Italy, the city of art and 
beauty, whose very name is flowers. 



o 



i&)ccM0\on to QYlon^e Cat>o. 

May JO, iSjj. 

N the 30th of May, 1873, with two persons whose ac- 
quaintance had been made in Rome, whom I will 
call Brown and Prince — both Americans — I started for a 
day's excursion among the Alban Hills. 

We were not long in passing the wall beyond which was 
the Campagna, famous for the events that had occurred on 
it, and for the fearful malaria that was supposed to be lin- 
gering on every hillock and hiding in every dell. It was 
not very interesting, we thought. An undulating plain, 
spreading far away, with many deep gullies, devoid of 
beauty. Near the city were some pleasant streets and 
solitary houses, but along the railway there was little to 
interest. The land did not seem to be rich, and a sense of 
desolation oppressed us, heightened by the knowledge of 
what had once been there. Twenty-three hundred or 
more years ago it was covered with flourishing farms and 
an industrious, thriving population. Then came an era of 
huge estates, driving the small owners away. With the 
emperors it grew worse, and many parts became marshes. 
Claudius and Nero tried to improve it, and many villas 
were built, introducing an era of improvement ; but the 
invading barbarians occupied it, and the ruin became com- 
plete. In the middle ages it Avas dotted all over with the 
baronial castles of several rival families of Rome. Some 
attempts were made to drain it and improve the sanitary 



EXCURSION TO MONTE CAVO 



439 



condition of the soil, but without much success ; and now 
it is a field of desolation, and we breathe freer when the 
hills are reached. Long lines of aqueducts are, from time 
to time, seen, like troops of elephants marching across the 
plain towards the Eternal City. 

The only pleasant thing is the sight of the Alban Hills, 
a few miles beyond, and other groups at the left, farther 
away ; and we feel an inexpressible longing to escape from 
that place of unmarked graves, where men have been 
buried for 2, 500 years. 

How these neglected plains have resounded with the 
tramp of armies, victors and vanquished, and been crim- 
soned with rivers of human blood, the result of unworthy 
struggles, long torturing this ancient peninsula ! Happy 
fields may have been there all these years, but yet it has 
been the trysting place of bandits and assassins, the reck- 
less, selfish, and the cruel. 

At length the cars stop at Casette. Having been fore- 
warned — not very generously, it must be confessed — I 
took possession of the outside front seat on the omnibus 
that was to convey us to Albano, two and a half miles. It 
was worth my effort, for it gave me unobstructed views of 
Castello Savelli, in ruins, on the right, and La Turri on the 
left, and of Ariccia, with its ancient castle and imposing 
viaduct. 

The Alban Mountain, that we must now begin to climb, 
is circular in its outline, an ancient volcano, with indica- 
tions of several craters. The largest of all is the highest, 
and spreads out into the so-called Campo d'Annibale. 
Lake Albano lies in its lap, part way up, and Nemi farther 
to the right. 

Our day's journey will first be on the sides of this moun- 
tain, taking a somewhat irregular route seeking the sum- 



440 EXCURSION TO MONTE CA VO 

mit, meanwhile casting our eyes to the right or left as in- 
teresting objects or views present themselves. 

Albano is an interesting, characteristic town, with all 
the peculiarities of an old Italian city. In imperial times 
it was a place for summer residence. Some emperors had 
villas or palaces there, and out of pride or fear built strong 
fortifications, while humbler nobles built humbler villas. 
The remains of an amphitheatre are still to be seen. We 
may reasonably imagine it to have been a favorite place 
for Romans, when, then as now, everyone felt, for reasons 
of health or love of excitement, the necessity of going 
somewhere. Then the streets, palaces, and groves re- 
sounded with sounds of gaiety, and, perhaps, exhibited all 
the follies of a corrupt imperial society. 

A short time was spent in bargaining for mules to carry 
us up to the summit of Monte Cavo. 

The entire population, apparently, had a holiday. The 
little square seemed to be the general gathering place, in 
which not much space was left unoccupied. It was a 
strange crowd, with dark faces and darker eyes, and some- 
times with rather picturesque costumes. Men, women, 
and children of all ages and conditions mingled with un- 
checked carelessness. They had come out, perhaps, to see 
the strange, rude specimens of humanity from far away — 
they did not know whence. 

My animal was at length selected. I do not know by 
what rule of choice, for I know almost nothing about those 
meditative animals. Apparently he was a favorite in the 
crowd, for a boy put his arms around his neck, and, with 
evident emotion, addressed him as " mio caro asino." 
These were not unpleasant words in their sounds; besides, 
they were encouraging, settling the reputation of the ani- 
mal with whom I was to have a rather familiar acquaint- 



EXCURSION TO MONTE CA VO 



441 



ance the next eight hours. I tried to admire him, too, but 
at this distance of time the recollection of that part of the 
excursion is less vivid than some other things. I did not 
admire the saddle that was fastened on the animal's back 
with ropes, nor did the reins, being made of the same ma- 
terial, impress me as being of the best conceivable taste. 
It was a mystery also to me that the bridle had no bit, but 
the strap — no, the rope — went around his long, dignified 
nose, which, no doubt, he greatly preferred. Whether 
this arrangement was due to the preference of the animal, 
or to some other reason, was not stated in the contract. 

My comrades were Mr. B., a merchant from the West, 
and Mr. P. , a student in a somewhat famous college in this 
country. When the preparations were all made, and we 
were all sitting on our noble steeds like experienced cava- 
liers, our guide clapped his hands, shouted, and ran. The 
animals began to run, too, and the assembled citizens 
joined in the clapping and shouting — no doubt intended 
as an honored " good-by." 

The sensation of riding on that strange little animal, 
with an unaccustomed progressive motion, was very ri- 
diculous ; but we resolved to make the best of it, although 
it was not a trot, nor a canter, but a run. Very soon there 
was a cry of " Stop ! whoa ! " Mr. B. was on the ground ; 
his saddle fastenings had proved insufficient. We are 
stopped to rearrange. The rope was drawn tighter and 
others added. Again, at the clapping of hands, away we 
went, but in a few moments Mr. P. went through the 
same experience ; and very shortly after I was obliged to 
call upon our engineer for like professional assistance. 

All things at last in working order, we ran at no digni- 
fied pace, with the guide on foot running and shouting at 
the top of his voice. It was a kind of John Gilpin race, and 
28 



442 



EXCURSION TO MONTE CA VO 



we should have been overcome by the ridiculousness of 
our adventure if all our thoughts and faculties had not 
been required to keep our position on our animated steeds. 
We could not make many objective investigations, but I 
remember that for awhile we scud along a beautiful road 
under a row of trees, that in ordinary circumstances might 
have been very agreeable, with interesting outlooks. 
This road was a part of the far-famed Appian Way. 

In due time we reached the level of the Alban Lake — a 
most interesting sheet of water, quietly resting in a basin 
on the side of the mountain ; once, no doubt, a crater of a 
now silent volcano, that belched forth its fire and thunder 
when the world was younger than now. Six hundred feet 
in shortest diameter is a small lake, but when we realize 
its depth — one thousand feet, reaching down lower than 
the surface of the sea — it seems as though only a few 
feet more would open communication with the sea of 
rock-melting fires, now waiting a chance to burst forth 
and desolate all that is fair and beautiful in this attractive 
place. 

The outlook over the Campagna was delightful, as we 
walked along the smooth road on the margin of the lake, 
past Castle Gondolfo, the home of the Sarelli family in 
the middle ages, and of the Popes of later times. 

On the east side of the lake was the site of Alba Longa, 
a prehistoric city, said to have been built by the son of 
^neas, and was the ancient capital of the Latin League. 
It was the traditional home of the Roman people. 

Strange emotions come rushing through our minds at 
the sound of those names, with their many associations. 
We seemed to be boys again, marching to school with our 
great Virgil in hand, and with dreams of Troy, Dido, 
Pater ^neas, and Juno, and a host of gods and heroes 



EXCURSION TO MONTE CAVO 



443 



that filled our minds with images that never quite faded 
out. These stories may have been mere pictures of the 
imagination, but the poet was — is — a reality. Oh, to be 
a boy again just for a day ! But the exact site of Alba 
Longa was lost a thousand years ago. No matter, Virgil 
still lives. Not far from here, between Gondolfo and 
Albano, was one of the grand villas of Domitian. 

Higher we climb, and the landscape widens accordingly, 
every moment giving us new thoughts for which we had 
no words. Up yonder on the brink of the great crater of 
Campo d'Annibale, so steep we almost wonder why it does 
not fall, hangs the small town of Rocca di Papa (2,500 
inhabitants). The streets are narrow, and often very pre- 
cipitous. The houses are huddled together, as if room 
was the most costly commodity to be thought of. It must be 
an interesting place for a short residence, but a long time 
would seem to be intolerable, if deprived of some of the 
delightful views with which some favored localities have 
been endowed. 

After dinner for man and beast — I have forgotten what 
we were able to get — our party began its last climb to 
the summit of Monto Albano (Monte Cavo) along a some- 
what circuitous route, in a narrow but well-built piece of 
old Roman road, in excellent condition — said to be the 
best preserved specimen in existence to-day. It was a 
novel, delightful ride, rising higher and higher, with new 
views ever to be gained and admired, till at last we are at 
the highest point — 3,200 feet — crowned not by a temple, 
but by a monastery, that we cared not the least about. 
We knew that, but in our hearts we thought of the old 
temple of Jupiter Latiaris, of no mean dimensions — 254 
feet by 127 — now, alas! covered and disgraced by an un- 
sightly white, barnlike building. Though in no respect a 



444 



EXCURSION TO MONTE CA VO 



worshiper of the displaced gods, I felt a kind of indigna- 
tion for the imagined sacrilege. It would have been a 
strange pleasure to enter that dwelling-place of the dead 
deity ; and, gaining some inspiration from the trophies 
hanging around the shrine and the long walls, to recall 
some of the events that occurred in the dim distance of 
two, perhaps of three, thousand years. It was the re- 
ligious capital of the ancient Latin nations, leagued to- 
gether against a new, stronger power, destined to over- 
turn, perhaps to annihilate, them. The history is meager 
and uncertain, but there were there, no doubt, brave men 
and patriots, as well as cowards and traitors ; and hearts 
were glad or sad according to circumstances, as to-day. I 
hope their spirits found a better place to rest than Aeneas 
is said to have found in his visit to the dismal world 
below. 

What a delightful spot ! The great plain and the hills 
far and near are the same. The Lakes Albano and Nemi 
are spread out below, part way down, as then. There are 
Ariccio and Genzano of a later date, still celebrated for 
the beauty of their women. We did not go there, but 
were disposed to smile at the simplicity of our informant, 
who knew not what might be found in the new world over 
the great sea. 

If the day should be clear, one could see far off the 
ships, islands, and dancing waves of the blue Medi- 
terranean. According to tradition, it was on this com- 
manding height that "cruel Juno," in all her imperial 
haughtiness, sat and watched the contest between the 
Trojans and Latins, never satisfied with the sad fate of 
the unfortunate fugitives, whom she had pursued on many 
seas with undiminished hate. How fortunate that all 
those gods and goddesses have departed from our sphere, 



EXCURSION TO MONTE CA VO 



445 



and left us poor mortals in peace at last ! The entrance 
by the dark lake of Avernus is apparently closed, and it is 
to be hoped that those useless and troublesome person- 
ages are strongly locked in and down, confining them, 
though ever so reluctantly, to the sober realms below. 

Sometimes a returning, though victorious, general was 
refused the honor of a triumph in Rome by the Senate or 
people — perhaps very unjustly, for the people were 
fickle-minded ; but he, not willing to forego his honors 
and supposed rights, nothing daunted, marched with his 
legions up the triumphal road and deposited his trophies 
in the now demolished temple of Jupiter. The notice of 
five such demonstrations are to be found. Among the 
leaders were C. Papinus Naso, B.C. 231, and Marcellus, 
B.C. 211. Ordinarily a triumph is supposed to be incom- 
plete without a multitude to applaud, but they had the 
satisfaction of feeling that they had done what they 
pleased, in spite of the proud ruler of the world. 

It would have been a great pleasure to linger here and 
feast the eye on the fairy landscape — marvelous in itself 
— studying out the towns and locations still real, and in- 
viting the imagination to re-people the surrounding hills 
and the " broad Campagna sea " with the life of twenty- 
five or more departed centuries ; but time still moves 
here, and we must go. 

It is an inhospitable place. No one will sell you any- 
thing to appease your rising appetite, nor minister to your 
other wants ; but they cannot shut out the landscape and 
associations. 

About this time our guide began to see some great ob- 
jections to returning by way of Tusculum and Frascati, 
according to agreement. "We have not time," he said; 
"it was a difficult road to travel ; no one goes that way." 



446 EXCURSION TO MONTE CAVO 

We, however, entertained quite different views on the 
subject, and were equally determined on going. Some 
loud and rather unbecoming talk occurred, fists were 
stretched out into the astonished air, and as positive de- 
mands and assertions were made by us in poor French. 
Apparently the wrath was fearful, but secretly it was 
comical ; and, being three to one, the guide was compelled 
to submit, but with unconcealed disgust. 

After a few last looks upon plain, mountain, and sea, 
with emotions of sadness, because we should never look 
out upon them again, we mounted our unwilling steeds 
and started on the downward path, not so novel, but more 
pleasant, because the desired landscape was always in 
sight. 

After awhile we left the Via Triumphalis, by which we 
had ascended, and turned toward the north, across the 
Campo d'Annibale. No Carthagenians were seen. If 
their warlike spirits had lingered awhile, watching over 
the spot where their bodies had fallen, they were all gone 
now. Not a shield nor spear, not even a bone was left — 
not very strange, for it was long ago that Hannibal pitched 
his tent there. 

Our noble animals, like the guides, seemed to be of the 
opinion that a direct return to Albano would be desirable, 
and showed their disappointment in a variety of ways 
peculiar to themselves. On one occasion the road was 
bordered by tall shrubs and trees thick with spreading 
branches. My " Caro Asino" seemed to prefer the ex- 
treme margin, and then I understood the reason for that 
peculiar bridle — no doubt made after his own pattern, 
consisting of rope fastened to his nose, without a bit. 
You might, at first, suppose it was so made to enable him 
to crop the tender leaves as he passed along, thus econo- 



EXCURSION TO MONTE CA VO 



447 



mizing time and fodder, something very dear to Italians. 
That theory experience then told me was not the truth. 
We could pull the rope and slacken his pace, but could 
not change the direction, for pull which rein you might 
choose, the effect on his nose was always about the same 
— to retard — a result not sought. His intent was soon 
evident — it was/V// — for the meek, amiable beast tried 
to rub us off from his back by the aid of his friends the 
bushes. He showed his inborn obstinacy, and we could 
not turn him away. We were compelled to cling with our 
feet to the docile animal to keep our position, and use our 
hands to protect our faces from scratches and our gar- 
ments from impending destruction. Had this state of 
things continued long, I should not be here to-night, but 
might have been scattered in minute fragments over the 
ancient camp of Hannibal ; but the bushy road ended, as 
all things will finally, and right, apparently, for once con- 
quered. After a short run they settled down into a gentle 
walk, as if to show the)'- only meant to play a joke. I 
have ever since thought better of caro asino for this ex- 
hibition of wit and intelligence, and the good grace with 
which he submitted when it became evident that was the 
only course left for him to pursue. 

We descended from the higher point of the Alban Hills, 
crossed a plain, and then rose to another moderate height 
on the outer edge of the old crater to Tusculum, the 
birthplace of the older Cato, and favorite residence of 
Cicero. In the wars of the middle ages the city was de- 
stroyed, and only scanty ruins now remain, but enough to 
indicate the importance of that very ancient city. One 
thought filled my mind — that this was once the home of 
the great Roman orator. " Quosque tandem abutere Cati- 
lina patientia nostra ? " was continually ringing in my ears, 



448 



EXCURSION TO MONTE CAVO 



and always and still returns with the thought of Tuscu- 
lum. Here he lived, thought, studied, and wrote, strug- 
gling up, out of heathenism, towards the great truths in- 
herited by us. I care not for his weaknesses to-night, nor 
his faults ; but choose to think of him as the second great 
orator of the world, a great writer, and a great patriot, 
considered in comparison with the best of his times. 
Fortune was fickle with him. They say his tomb lies 
near the Bay of Naples, but no one knows. Tusculum 
has little for us to keep in mind except his name. 

We descended the hill on the farther side, but after 
wandering around awhile, found our guide had lost his 
way ; but he found it, and led us safely to Frascati, where, 
in the twilight, we took the cars for Rome. 

At that time there was not much to be seen, it was too 
dark ; but there was enough to think about. We were 
riding over plains where the struggle of human life has 
been long and terrible — a battle-field for heathenism, 
Christianity, and falsehood, baptized in blood and fire, the 
darkfest theatre of the dark ages — only now, in the nine- 
teenth century, slightly glimmering with light and hope. 
More yet, it is the festering place of a death-bearing fever, 
blasting like the breath of its fabled Avernus, for dread 
of which we fain would close the window and shut out 
the pestilence-bearing air of evening, lest the poison 
should stealthily penetrate our veins, and then our bones, 
after a short burial, would be cast out, to add a few more 
pounds of earth to the great, tombless, unmarked, weed- 
bound cemetery of the Campagna. 



The object of this paper is to make some inquiries as to 
the origin of our individual opinions in regard to the 
great questions that interest the world at the present 
time. 

By way of introduction, let me relate a short history, 
which will have its parallel in almost every village. 

Mr. J D and Captain are respectable 

citizens in the town of . They were not highly 

educated, but men of some general intelligence, and re- 
garded by their fellow-citizens as, socially, rather above 
the others, and tacitly acknowledged to be the leaders of 
their respective parties. Being comfortably provided 
with the necessaries of life, they had time to devote to 
the public affairs of the town, and one was sure to hold 
some prominent office whenever his party was in power. 
As in politics, so in social and religious circles, their in- 
fluence was usually leading. 

Each of these citizens had five sons. Of these, nine 
out of the ten followed in the footsteps of their fathers, 
believing as they believed, voting as they voted, and en- 
tertaining the same preferences for their favorite religious 
denomination. They were strong Democrats or Republi- 
cans, Presbyterians, Methodists, or Episcopalians, as the 
family choice had hitherto given expression. From their 
early childhood, among their playfellows, they heard 
with indignation any slur upon their party, and the possi- 
bility of their being wrong was never entertained for a 
moment. 



450 INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 

Out of the ten sons one thought for himself. How or 
when he began to act for himself will not be stated. We 
may presume that he differed from the others in the 
structure of his mind, that he was more thoughtful, that 
he was interested in knowing the reasons of things. To 
such a person the world would soon become a library and 
life an instructor. He would then discover errors and in- 
consistencies in the views of his respected parents and 
brothers, and thus, slowly at first, but surely in the end, 
the necessity of thinking for himself would be forced upon 
him. 

It is interesting to see how a little spark once intro- 
duced into a young mind, for good or evil, will live, and 
in the end glow like a furnace. 

The questions to be briefly considered here may now be 
stated. What is the origin of our individual opinions upon 
the questions that interest society at the present day ? 
In no respect involving the questions whether there is a 
foundation for a religious belief, but assuming that, and 
only inquiring why do men adopt the views of a particu- 
lar party, sect, social reformer in preference to another ? 
In the narrative, why did the nine hold to the opinions of 
their fathers, and why did one differ ? 

The families were alike respectable, and had nearly the 
same opportunities for obtaining knowledge ; yet they 
embraced different sides or views in political, religious, 
and other questions of the day. Each seemed entirely 
conscientious and perfectly sure of the rectitude of his 
own position. There was only one rebel. He was a trouble 
to his sire and an offense to his brothers. They could not 
convince him, for he knew more than they did, and they 
would not be convinced by him, however clear and strong 
his arguments might have been ; moreover, they wondered 



INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 



451 



how he could be so stupid, so obstinate as not to see the 
force of their words. 

Children before they can read feel themselves to be of 
the same opinions and party as their father, just as natu- 
rally as they wear his name ; and, having arrived at ma- 
turity, many see no more reason for investigating- the 
views he always had than the right to bear the paternal 
appellation. Say to one of the Mr. Dobsons that his name 
is not Dobson, and he will think you a fool. If you pro- 
duce arguments and facts to prove what you say, it will 
awaken his pity. He knows it is so, and he is right for 
once ; but he will be just as positive about what he be- 
lieves without the least foundation, simply because he be- 
lieves, with no more reason in one case than in the other. 
If you attempt to convince him, you will probably fail. 
There seems to be no place for an argument or for the 
exercise of his reason, for neither were used in the forma- 
tion of his opinions — in truth, they were never formed, 
and seem to belong to the feelings rather than the intel- 
lect. 

The nine brothers will probably be good citizens and 
admired by their respective partisans, and each father 
will pride himself in having a family of stable sons. The 
rebel is a more interesting character. His mind has been 
seeking for reasons and proofs, and has found that the 
others — yes, he himself — are ignorant. Having awak- 
ened to the propriety and possibility of searching into the 
deeper workings of nature and life, a new world opens 
before him, and a very fascinating world indeed. The 
nine are stupid, and possibly safe ; he is progressive, it 
may be in danger. He may move on soberly and wisely, 
laying deep foundations, never again to be moved ; or, 
dazzled by his first success, he may fly away like a comet 



452 INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 

into some far oflf, unknown, and, perhaps, unknowable 
fields, from which he can never return to the solid ground 
again. 

In pursuing this subject we might gather minds into 
two classes, viz., those whose opinions have been received 
passively from parents or influential friends, and those 
whose views are the result of personal investigation. 

Of the nine sons with inherited beliefs we have little 
more to say. The case is clear ; we may safely leave 
them in their cradles, where they have ever been, mere 
children, and where we shall be sure to find them if again 
needed. The one, however, has tasted the sweets of 
freedom and independent thought, and to him, as the 
representative of a class, we may direct the few minutes 
remaining. The young freedman, having cast off his 
nursery clothes, spreads his wings boldly, and is quite 
likely to go into wild extremes. He is free, indeed, but 
all the old imperfections cling to him, and his untried am- 
bition will, possibly, carry him into unexpected contests, 
resulting, it may be, in mortifying discomfitures. To 
such a person a wise friend would be a great blessing — 
not to place him again in stocks, but to guide and aid. It 
takes most young men a long time to learn how little 
they know. 

I do not intend to follow his history as an individual, 
but to place him in a class — not large — of those who 
honestly determine to form their opinions on the merits 
of the case. That good resolution is beset with great diffi- 
culties. There are certain mental qualities all are likely to 
possess, in greater or less degree — enemies in our camp 
— that weaken every effort after truth. That combina- 
tion of circumstances that furnishes us with ready-made 
opinions continues its power over us till the last in the 



INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 453 

form of prejudices, that we try to resist with more or less 
success ; but it is an enemy that never neglects to lay for 
us a stumbling-block. 

How strangely obtuse is our mental vision when the 
truth seems opposed to our self-interest ! How lightly we 
pass over some things, and how long we linger on others ! 
He is a remarkable man who will seek after truth to his 
own hurt. With what indignation some men hear attacks 
upon their opinions, whether right or wrong. Does any- 
thing cut us more deeply than to question our knowl- 
edge ? Friendships of many years may be lost by allud- 
ing to the bad pronunciation of a word. 

That honest men should differ is strange. Some will 
doubt it. Is mathematics the only field in which reason- 
ing is sure ? Ought not any number of men with sound 
minds, having the same facts, free from all entangle- 
ments, understood in the same sense, if they act honestly, 
to come to the same conclusion? If that be true, then 
what we most need to build upon is facts, foundation 
truths, to be trusted without a doubt, and involved in no 
obscurity. In this lies the difficulty. The facts we want 
are not easily obtained by the mass of people. 

For illustration, let us turn our attention to questions 
in politics. We can read authors upon poHtical economy, 
and find in them a vast amount of supposed facts, among 
which there should be some grand foundation stones; 
but they do not lead to the same conclusions. To arrive 
at any certainty, then, we must go back to the sources 
from which they drew, but they are scattered through 
many volumes, or, more probably, out of our reach. We 
must then trust to the testimony of one of the two classes 
of writers. Which shall we choose? Inasmuch as they 
differ, one only can be right, and as both are witnesses 



454 



INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 



against whom there is no imputation of falsehood or ig- 
norance, though it is certain that one is wrong, who can 
tell which one ? Must not most men, then, choose 
blindly ? We might, perhaps, form an opinion as to par- 
ticular measures, but every step requires verification. 

When the question is upon the qualifications, the char- 
acter, and life of some candidate for office, the most ex- 
traordinary statements will be made — positive affirma- 
tions on the one side, and denials on the other. Both 
writers are apparently sincere, but one of them utters a 
lie. Which ? Who shall decide } The person who has in 
store the files of all the important newspapers and printed 
speeches and doings of public bodies for the last half cen- 
tury, and has the time and patience to examine them, can 
tell, but such persons are few. Many men are liars in 
politics, but some are truth-tellers. Some have stored up 
in their minds facts gleaned from year to year, and are 
able to elaborate a belief, and have firm, well-founded 
convictions, and walk in clear daylight ; but they are few, 
comparatively. 

In regard to religious opinions, no little hesitation is felt, 
lest something, might be said that would be deemed irrev- 
erent, or might wound the holiest and deepest sensibilities 
of our nature. The picture here is pleasanter. In poli- 
tics men are enemies, but in religion friends — at least, in 
our day. As to points of belief in essential things, all 
evangelical Protestants agree. They are traveling on the 
same road, hoping to reach the same glorious result by 
the same means. This concord is something to be ex- 
pected, for here men reason from the same premises, and 
should agree, for in this they will reason honestly, if ever. 
False witnesses and false pleading will give no comfort in 
that tribunal. 



INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 45^ 

In regard to the differences that distinguish the several 
evangeHcal sects, some are matters of taste, not positively- 
stated in the divine record. They might naturally and 
innocently vary with the taste of the individual. But 
there are certain doctrines and beliefs that each sect or 
school of theology claims to find in the word of God. 
The advocates of all are profoundly confident that they 
are founded and abtmdantly substantiated in the holy- 
Scriptures. They are so strong in their love of these 
■views that the denial of them is a cause of real distress, 
and even some would go to the stake in their defense. 

I have a profound respect for those persons who differ 
from me in some of these points ; but it is this that con- 
stitutes the dift'erence between sects, and so far as they 
are antagonistic — be it said with reverence — one only can 
be right ; the rest are in error. 

Here, from the same sources of information, they have 
arrived at different conclusions, more or less at variance. 
How can this be ? Are they dishonest ? We will not en- 
tertain such a thought for a moment ; rather believe they 
have never given the subject a sufficiently deep and un- 
prejudiced investigation, though most think they have. 
How shall we escape the conclusion that their opinions, in 
many cases at least, came from the same source from 
which they learned their mother tongue ? 

It is safe and delightful to rest by faith in the hands of 
our Heavenly Father. We must trust a great deal to our 
earthly parents and friends, but how blessed it would be 
if all men could trust with the same safety, and in their 
religious inheritance had received only pure gold ! 

Among men who endeavor to think for themselves and 
form their opinions upon the merits of the case, without 
prejudice, the difference must be largely, if not entirely, 
due to a want of knowledge on the subject. 



456 INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 

If the angels in Heaven were inquired of about some- 
thing within their sphere of knowledge, would there ever 
be more than one answer to the question ? Perhaps, there 
might be a difference in taste — who can tell ? — but never 
anything antagonistic. 

In religion unbelievers of all grades are profoundly ig- 
norant. Few investigate, but most try to maintain the 
position they are in sympathy with by ridiculing their 
opponents. The reasoning of young men who desire to 
be free from religious restraint is only silly ; on any other 
subject they would hide their faces with shame. 

Scientific men are startling the world with new and strange 
theories — so late in time, however, that they are no part 
of our paternal inheritance. We are not much more inde- 
pendent for that, because the investigations upon which 
they are founded are, ordinarily, for the few, and the rest 
must accept their teaching or remain in ignorance. Those 
who have a relish for such studies will have a wide, fasci- 
nating field of never-ending wonders ; we must leave them 
to work out the results. But those who do not feel at- 
tracted by the subject itself would do well to suspend 
judgment. There may be a vast amount of truth mingled 
with the error. A sifting of years may be necessary, but 
in the end there will be real progress. 

We might pursue this subject by glancing at some of 
the social questions of the day. So far as they are new, 
they will also have come to light since the fathers fell 
asleep. How likely most men are to find out the views of 
some favorite leader, and involuntarily think as he does ! 
That may be well enough, but it is not manly or flattering 
to our pride. 

Those who have had patience to listen to this time have, 
no doubt, seen that the object of this paper is to show 



INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 457 

that most persons on the subjects that interest mankind 
receive their opinions from others ready-made — for the 
most part, from those who teach them their mother tongue 
and guide their childish years — with no more exercise of 
reason in the one case than in the other. 

To repeat what has before been said : If any number of 
men, having taken into consideration the same facts, un- 
derstood in the same sense, do not reach the same con- 
clusion, is it not reasonable to infer that some of them 
came with their opinions so firmly fixed that their minds 
were barred against the reception of the truth? And 
does not the fact that men continue to hold diverse beliefs 
built upon the same foundations show that a large num- 
ber, at least, cherish not the results of their own mental 
operations, but are using an inheritance as truly descend- 
ing to them as the paternal houses and lands. 

In man's discussions pride so warps our judgment that 
really the object sought in our heart of hearts is how to 
win or to sustain our old position, and not to discover the 
truth. Then it becomes quite natural to desire to cover 
up what is troublesome and distort what is favorable. 

Who form their opinions upon the merits of the case, 
intelligently ? Not the nine sleepers we alluded to at the 
beginning of this paper ; not the young person who, hav- 
ing left home early, is influenced by some friend he likes, 
and does as he does ; not the doubting politician, who, not 
having original documents, adopts the belief of some 
leading man ; not the religionist who follows in his father's 
steps, or if he should once swing away, at last settles back 
into the old groove, or a new one, because it is the way 
' some learned doctor whom he admires thinks ; not any 
one who adopts the views of another person without 
weighing the reasons. 
29 



458 INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 

How many of the religious teachers of the Protestant 
organizations know when and why they chose their own 
denomination in preference to all others ? Some certainly, 
but not all. But why have they not all come to the same 
conclusion so far as the truths are concerned ? How can 
there exist any difference, except in matters of taste, in- 
volving no principle ? Mj^ respected teachers are honest 
in this, but so are other teachers over the way yonder. 
You think you are right ; so do they. But somebodj' is in 
error. Who ? Who are they who, during the discussions 
of a hundred years, have searched the storehouse of truth, 
and yet, all the time, have had their eyes darkened by the 
old, dry parchment of hereditary belief, and have closed 
the precious volume with the consciousness that their 
foundations were never so strong before ? Some. It may 
be best, but it is a very unwelcome labor, as hntnan na- 
ture is constituted, to work to prove that you are in error 
— that the plank on which you stand w^ill not hold you. 

If you ask a hundred voters why they belong to their 
particular party, how many will be able to give an intelli- 
gent answer } Some will, surely, but few. Some will tell 
you that it is on account of their views upon the tariff, the 
currency, public improvements, etc.; but to most these 
names are empty sounds, so far as any real comprehension 
of the subject is concerned. If you take out the above 
topics, and every other worthy the consideration of a man 
of sense, still, for the most part, the ranks will remain 
firm. They will still be Democrats or Republicans, because 
they are. 

It is not intended by this to say that there are no solid 
foundations for political actions ; on the contrary, there 
are great principles founded upon theory and experience, 
and worthy of the study of great minds, but it is believed 



INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 459 

that only a few any more than scratch the dust above the 
earth that holds the ore, valuable, but deeply buried. 

The tactics of political workers, at the time of our great 
elections, while they appeal to the nobler sentiments of 
our nature, also descend to those which are disgusting and 
humiliating. How many times use is made of the lowest 
motives — bribery, direct or indirect, promise of business, 
assistance, or office, the low attractions of the grog-shop, 
and to some who are too honest to yield to anything they 
could offer the fact that their friend, Mr. So-and-So, wants 
their vote, or the old party should be sustained. God 
must help us if the nation's prosperity rests upon such a 
miserable farce. 

In the midst of all this confusion and blind clinging to a 
belief, we know not why, some persons are right, but with 
many of these it is not due to their wisdom ; so far as they 
are concerned, it is an accident. There are a few who, by 
patient investigation, a determination to overcome all 
prejudices and all the promptings of self-interest and 
pride, have founded their belief on the rock of truth, or 
have examined the structure in which they were educated 
and found that its pillars extended down to the immovable 
granite. Such persons can enjoy a sensation of certainty 
in themselves, and they are like great ships at anchor in 
deep water, riding in peace, to which small boats, whose 
plummet cannot reach the bottom, may throw out a line, 
and wait in safety till the morning. There is little hope 
of increasing the proportion of wise men so long as the 
public taste prefers the light, vapory fiction of the day to 
anything that requires effort. 

Some good people will think that it is an evil to doubt 
our foundations, and say : " They are all right. Why not 
rest, and build higher?" That would be well if the 



46o INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 

strength of the foundations were acknowledged to be sure 
by all, but at least one-half of the community believe 
that the other half are in error. We believe that our 
party, club, or denomination are right, and we have 
worked well in it ; but so say our friends over the way, 
and among them are wise, learned, patriotic, and self- 
denying men. 

We should not fear investigation. If we are right, it 
will give us confidence. If we are wrong, we should be 
glad to make the discovery. Error never did any man 
any good, but is an ulcer that poisons, that should be 
found, and made to yield to the surgeon's knife. 

I have presumed too much upon your patience, and it is 
time to close. As this paper is not a sermon, no detailed 
application will be made ; but it seems to me that if men 
would realize more clearly how ill-founded are the opin- 
ions of many — perhaps of themselves — they would be in 
a healthier condition, and more hopeful of improvement 
in the future. Many noisy, boasting, disagreeable brawlers 
would retire. Modest, conscientious men would speak 
more tenderly to those of opposite beliefs, and, what is 
better still, there would be a deeper searching for the 
truth, and a strong desire and effort to judge without pre- 
judice. It would not be the giving tip of any faith or 
principle, but a firmer grasp upon all that was good. 

If it be true that the stamp of our intellectual and moral 
peculiarities is placed upon us very early in life, and is 
seldom changed essentially in all our succeeding years, 
what a terrible responsibility rests upon those who have 
the training of the unfolding mind ! If the young being 
grows up with graceful manners and nice sense of pro- 
priety in all things, it is because it was so taught and seen 
in his child-home. If he shall speak a pure, rounded, me- 



INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 461 

lodious language, it was learned at his mother's knee. In 
the years of his manhood, whether he shall be pure and 
noble, patriotic, enlightened, industrious, of this party or 
that, of this sect or that, or a miserable prodigal, lower 
than the beast, will, in most cases, depend upon what he 
bore with him from the home of his youth. The spirit of 
God may give him a new heart, but he will still be the 
child of his parents, and the peculiarities that distinguish 
him from other individuals will, for the most part, be the 
result of their example and teaching, and will follow him 
to the end — perhaps to eternity. 

God pity the orphan who has had no guiding hand nor 
loving heart to nourish the first impulses of good in his 
little, susceptible soul ! Yes, pity those poor unfortu- 
nates, worse than fatherless, whose homes are in the 
midst of wickedness and degradation. 

Those who are charged with the moulding of youthful 
minds and character, if it is well done, may be comforted 
with the thought that the good will never lose its power. 
Years of wandering may follow, but there is something 
within that cannot be blotted out. But alas for those 
whose youth has been blasted by evil surroundings ! — like 
the thistles that have found a lodgment in the otherwise 
fair field of the husbandman, that will not be eradicated ; 
so they carry in their hearts a snare, a poison, an enemy, 
that God only can overcome. 



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